Grave Situation Page 9

  He stared at the pile of paperwork on his desk, lost in thought.

  If another victim, then who? Is the person alive or dead?

  He picked up the telephone and called around to the local hospitals to see if anyone had shown up with stab or cut wounds throughout the early morning hours. No such luck.

  His last call was to the Vice Unit to see if anyone had been reported missing from the night before. Only one he was told—a local prostitute named Trixy Lynn Ambré. She had failed to come home from work. Her younger sister filed the report earlier in the day.

  “If I could,” Allan said, “I’d like to review the report.”

  “Face it, Al. You just miss us here in Vice. And you use any excuse to come back and see your old friends.”

  Allan smiled at the joke. The rich baritone voice on the other end belonged to Marc Zwicker. He had worked with Allan during his brief tenure in the Vice Unit.

  “Yes.” Allan chuckled. “You got me.”

  “Come on down. I’ll have it waiting for you.”

  When Allan went back to his office with the file, he spread out the contents of it on his desk. The report revealed Trixy Ambré was last seen leaving her apartment on Brewer Street at approximately 10:30 p.m. The probable cause of her disappearance was unknown. She had no previous history of missing before. A dental chart was unavailable. She had no acknowledged disability or dependency. She was known to Vice as a prostitute who had been arrested twice in the past year. At any rate, Trixy Ambré did not seem to have a reason to disappear.

  Vice had already made visits to the local hospitals, the train station and the airport. No one had seen her.

  The supplementary report listed blood types. All were circled unknown.

  Allan picked up the accompanying photo. It showed a young woman with a pale, unblemished complexion, not covered by makeup. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail. Her level blue eyes conveyed a somewhat serious look.

  Pretty, Allan concluded.

  He turned back to the main page of the report. The person who had reported Trixy missing was Cathy Ambré. It was then he noticed the two women lived at the same address.

  After gathering up the file, he left the office for his car.

  16

  Halifax, May 9

  8:05 p.m.

  Allan drove through a low-rent neighborhood in the north end of the city. Coasting slowly down the street, he passed a rundown convenience store with lottery signs covering the windows. Three kids on bikes loitered on the sidewalk outside the entrance. Further on, he came upon a row of old brick apartment buildings. The first one was a condemned shell, gutted by a fire late last fall. Sheets of plywood still covered the windows and main door. Black soot marred the brick. A heavy load of winter’s snow had left a sag in the roof.

  Like much of the neighborhood, city officials seemed to have forgotten about the building. No order had been issued for its demolition.

  Two buildings up the street Allan found the one he was looking for. The dwelling bore its age, with no attempt at upkeep over the years. Its brick facade was blackened by weather and time. Below the overhanging branch of an elm tree ran a patch of moss down one side. Wrought-iron bars covered the windows of the basement and first floor.

  Allan pulled his car to the curb, shut off the engine, and got out.

  Five cement steps lead him to a glass door. He opened the door and entered the building. From all appearances the inside reflected as much neglect as the outside. Graffiti defaced the walls. There were holes in the plaster the size of fists. The carpet was stained and smelled musky. The floorboards creaked underneath his step.

  Doors ran down both sides of the hallway. In front of him a stairwell rose to the second floor. Grabbing hold of a flimsy banister, he climbed two steps and then stopped. He had seen much poverty in his life, conditions in which no one should have to live. In recent years, the disparity between the rich and poor seemed to be escalating. Yet despite the privation here, there was one small sign of a fight for human dignity in the face of such hardship—a child’s red tricycle sitting above him on the landing.

  Cathy Ambré’s apartment was the last door on the right. Allan knocked softly. There was silence. Then came the sound of movement inside. The door cracked open to the length of a safety chain. The woman who peeked out had black curly hair and green eyes. She was wearing a red blouse and black slacks.

  “Miss Cathy Ambré?”

  The woman’s lips parted. “Yes?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Allan Stanton with the Halifax Regional Police Major Crimes Unit.” He flashed his badge and ID card. “Earlier this afternoon you came down and filed a missing persons report about your sister, Trixy Ambré?”

  Cathy swallowed. Her wary eyes moved to his badge, to the folder in his other hand and then back to his face. For a moment, she was silent. When she spoke again, her voice was cautious. “Yes, I did. It’s not bad news, is it?”

  “No. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

  Cathy hesitated for a moment, as if reluctant to let him in.

  “Okay,” she said finally.

  Gently, she shut the door. There was the sound of a chain sliding across a latch. When the door opened again, Cathy drew aside.

  “Come in.”

  The apartment was small. The furnishings were spare, undistinguished. To his left, Allan saw a small, square living room. Inside sat a gray sofa with worn arms. A glass-top coffee table and a twenty-inch television were perched on a wooden stand in the corner. The single window faced Brewer Street. There still remained enough of the setting sun to brighten the room inside.

  Opposite the living room was the kitchen. An old electric stove. A table with two place settings. Here and there, pieces of linoleum had peeled off the floor. The sink was empty, the counter-top wiped cleaned. Despite the condition of the building, the apartment was well kept.

  In front of Allan was a hallway that led into three other rooms. Two bedrooms and a bath.

  When he turned to Cathy he saw that she still held the door open.

  There was something unhealthy about her, he observed. Skin too pale. Dark smudges under her eyes. Body wire-thin, almost anorexic. Posture slightly stooped, as if she were suffering from osteoporosis. The most striking feature about her was the staring look of her eyes.

  Allan paused as he noticed the raised scars in the crooks of her arms. Inwardly, he winced.

  Needle tracks. Such a waste.

  He studied her some more and couldn’t see any signs that she was under the influence of drugs at that moment. Her pupils were not constricted. Her speech, though soft, was clear, not slurred.

  “This will take a few minutes, Miss Ambré,” Allan told her. “You can shut the door.”

  She did so. Slowly, she shuffled toward him with eyes downcast. The frequent kneading of her blouse revealed her uneasiness. There was a frailty to her steps, Allan noticed.

  Concerned, he asked, “Are you feeling well?”

  She looked up. “I’ve been sick. But I’m getting better.”

  “Maybe we should sit down.” He gestured to the living room.

  They walked to the sofa and sat. Allan placed the folder on the coffee table and opened it. He read over the missing person’s report again. Beside him, Cathy was quiet, watchful.

  Attached to the report was the color picture of Trixy Ambré. Allan held it up.

  “How recent is this?” he asked.

  Cathy made no attempt to touch the picture. “I took that at the first of the year.”

  “We have your sister on file. She was brought in a couple of times for prostitution.”

  A new tone entered Cathy’s voice, one bordering on accusatory. “So you’ll treat Trixy’s disappearance in some cavalier fashion because to you she’s just a hooker?”

  Allan paused a moment, taken aback. “We don’t discriminate, Miss Ambré. Your sister’s profession can put her into precarious situations. I’ve come to you to see what her demeanor
was before she disappeared. Perhaps she is missing on her own accord.”

  Cathy gave him a look of incredulity. “I can’t see Trixy doing something like that.”

  “What was her frame of mind when you last saw her? Was she acting differently?”

  “Differently?”

  “Secretive or preoccupied about something?”

  “No.”

  “Was she complaining of anything the last while?”

  “No.”

  “What did the two of you talk about?”

  Cathy hesitated. “Nothing much. We were supposed to go out for dinner Monday afternoon.”

  “Tell me about the last moments you saw Trixy…”

  17

  Halifax, May 8

  10:05 p.m.

  The hallway was dark. There was a crack of light under the bathroom door. On the other side of it, Cathy knew her sister was getting ready for work.

  Cathy knocked once and then opened the door. Trixy stood in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully applying mascara to enhance the blueness of her eyes. Fresh out of the shower, she wore a pink terrycloth robe. Her hair hung in wet strands.

  From the doorway, Cathy watched her.

  “When will you be home tonight?” she asked.

  “The usual.” Trixy didn’t turn. “Probably daybreak. Depends on how much business I pick up.” She capped the mascara and set it on the sink. “You need to get your rest. Remember what the doctor told you.”

  Cathy was quiet for a time, feeling the truth of this. Since her release from the hospital, it had been a difficult battle to regain her strength.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said at last.

  Trixy gave her a sideways glance with a questioning look in her eyes. “Will you? You owe me lil’ sis. You put me through hell. I thought I’d lost you.”

  Torn, Cathy’s gaze fell to the floor. She became quiet again. Trixy moved forward and touched her arm.

  “I just want you to get better,” she whispered.

  Cathy felt her stomach tighten. She could see the worry in Trixy’s eyes. By reflex she mustered a tentative smile.

  So many things, she thought, I can’t tell you.

  Her own sense of betrayal made her sick inside. Trixy remained the only person in the world who seemed to have any faith in her.

  “I’ll get better,” Cathy said softly. “It’s going to take some time. I realize that.”

  Trixy tilted her head, studying her. A faint smile formed on her lips.

  “I know you will,” she said.

  After brushing past, Trixy retreated to her bedroom to get dressed. For a moment, Cathy stood where she was, alone with her thoughts.

  Was Trixy losing confidence in her? Her sister’s tone and expression certainly suggested it.

  Cathy drifted to her own bedroom where she laid on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. In the other room, she could hear Trixy rummaging through dresser drawers.

  How did I reach this point in my life? Cathy mused.

  Twenty-three years old. Less than two years earlier she had been a clear-eyed student in university looking forward to her degree and the prospect of better things. Now her future seemed to be a void, empty of hope. Before the mishap, she made beds and cleaned bathrooms in a dingy motel for minimum wage. Not even enough to keep herself. Then one incalculable mistake changed everything.

  Cathy shut her eyes. She could rebuild her life. Somehow go after her degree again. Somehow regain her life.

  There were footsteps in the hall. As Cathy started to get up, Trixy appeared in the doorway. She wore a red leather jacket and black mini-skirt. She held a red purse.

  The time was 10:26.

  “I’m leaving now,” she said.

  Cathy followed her to the door, waited there as Trixy slipped on red stilettos.

  “Be careful.”

  Trixy flashed a white smile, a gesture of assurance. “I always am.”

  Outside came the toot of a horn.

  The two women turned their heads toward the sound.

  “My ride’s here.” Trixy gave her sister a fleeting peck on the cheek. “See you in the morning.”

  With that, she was gone.

  Cathy locked the door behind her. She shut out all the lights, and went to the window in the living room and watched her sister climb into a yellow cab. As Trixy closed the door, her face appeared in the side window. Her hand lifted in a wave just before the cab pulled away from the curb.

  Cathy couldn’t have known that would be the last image she would have of her sister.

  She retired to her bedroom, and for what seemed like hours, lay awake in the darkness. Lately, many of her nights were spent like this, protracted by broken sleep.

  She sat up and turned on a bedside lamp. It was now 12:47 am. Cathy slid open the top drawer of the nightstand. Inside were a pen and a diary with a locking clasp. On the diary’s front cover was a sunflower painting by Vincent Van Gogh. It had been a gift from her parents last Christmas. Everyday afterwards, she had scribbled in entries ranging from the periods of mundane doldrums in her life, to the most intimate depths of her thoughts and desires.

  Somewhere during her move to Trixy’s, Cathy had lost the keys. She had to constantly remind herself not to lock the diary.

  Tonight, she read over her final entry. Deciding to add a few lines, she took out the pen:

  Another sleepless night. I’m doing my best to get through this. So many things on my mind right now. The Devil seems to be still knocking on my door and he’s relentless. I know that’s my problem. So many times I just sit and stare at the phone. So many times I fight with myself not to pick it up and make that call. Trixy, I must remind myself, it’s all for her. One day I may look back at this period in my life and be proud of myself.

  When she finished writing, Cathy closed the diary and put it back in the drawer. She shut out the light and slipped under the covers again. Still, sleep wouldn’t come. She tossed and turned until daybreak.

  At 7:45, she got up, padded to the window, and opened the blinds. The morning sun spilled into the room with such intensity, it made her squint. Quietly, so not to awaken Trixy, she pulled a bathrobe from a hanger in the closet. Then she went out to the hallway where she stopped cold. Something was out of place. Trixy’s bedroom door was open.

  Odd. Her sister usually slept until after lunch with her door closed.

  As Cathy looked inside the room, she saw the bed was still made. No one had been in it. Around her, the apartment felt still, silent.

  Worried, Cathy went to the living room and called Trixy’s cell phone. After several rings, a recorded voice told her the person she was calling was not answering or was out of the service area.

  Strange, Cathy thought. If Trixy had her phone shut off, it would go directly to her voice mail.

  All at once, she lost her appetite for breakfast. She refused to imagine her older sister in trouble. Not the strong woman she had always admired. Impossible.

  By ten-thirty, Cathy had called eight times. This was unlike Trixy. Cathy began pacing through the apartment, trying to keep tragic thoughts at bay. She had never felt so alone, so afraid.

  She walked to the window in the living room and watched the street.

  Maybe a man had paid Trixy to spend some extra hours with him. It happened before. But in those instances, Trixy had always called. Maybe she had simply forgotten this time.

  Suddenly, footsteps sounded outside in the corridor. They were light, a woman’s. Cathy hurried to the door and put an eye to the peephole. Through it, she saw the convex image of the elderly neighbor across the hallway, coming home in her Sunday dress. Cathy felt herself sag with disappointment. She leaned her back against the door. The plain clock on the kitchen wall read ten past eleven.

  There had to be something she could do. She refused to call the police. Trixy would hate it if she did.

  Come noon, however, the fearful young woman felt she had no choice.

 
18

  Halifax, May 9

  8:30 p.m.

  Diminishing light filtered through the window as Cathy finished her story.

  Allan watched her in silence while he constructed a framework of questions.

  “Is Trixy your sister’s real name?”

  Cathy stared at her hands. “Her real name is Cynthia. She legally changed it to Trixy to piss off Mom and Dad.”

  “When was this?”

  “Three years ago, maybe. Just after she started into prostitution.”

  “When you say ‘to piss off Mom and Dad’, I gather there are problems between them?”

  Cathy emitted a long breath. “Where would I begin?”

  She rose and turned on an overhead light. For a long time, she stood with her back to him, arms folded. She seemed very far away. Allan sensed other issues at play here.

  “Should I talk to them?” he asked.

  When Cathy turned around, he saw the anguish in her face. She took a step toward him, and then abruptly stopped.

  “No!” she blurted. “You mustn’t tell them about this.”

  At once, she put a hand to her mouth. Surprise registered in her green eyes. Perhaps, Allan thought, at her sudden outburst. She seemed to stare through him for a brief time. Then she turned sideways, looking at the floor. In the silence her body was stiff and still.

  Allan scrutinized her. To him, Cathy Ambré had the troubled look of someone who internalized a lot of personal conflicts. Reflexively, his eyes were drawn back to the needle tracks in her arms.

  “Your parents deserve to know about their daughter,” he said at last.

  “Why?” Suddenly, her voice changed. It became low, reflective. “They don’t know her or even me for that matter. We have our lives, they have theirs.”

  “Both you and your sister don’t get along with your parents?”

  Cathy shook her head a fraction. “It’s mostly my father.” She faced Allan, averting her eyes from his. “He had high expectations of us. But neither one of us exactly lived up to them.” Her eyes seemed distant, sad. Her voice took on a despairing mood. “When Dad found out Trixy was into prostitution, he tried to give her money to stop. Then pretty much disowned her when she wouldn’t. They’ve been on the outs ever since.