The Taken

26

Hazel dropped the phone and, in one motion, freed her gun from its holster and spun, weapon extended. Joanne Cameron was standing in the living room, the light from the closed venetians spreading in a bright fan around her body. She hadn’t flinched. Standing before her now, Cameron only faintly resembled that confident woman who’d shown up at her office one week ago. She looked smaller, her clothes hung off her, and her smart bead necklace looked cheap. She was holding a large white plastic bag with something inside weighing it down. Hazel’s eyes flicked between Cameron’s face and the bag. “Step back, Joanne,” she said. “Back away.”

Cameron ignored her and reached into the bag. Hazel decided if she brought out Eldwin’s head she was going to shoot her on the spot. But she removed an official evidence bag and Hazel knew right away what was in it and who had given it to her.

“She was wearing this the night she was killed,” Cameron said, holding out the bag with the black sweater in it. “There are bits of wood in it, and varnish. It was all in the lab report, but they ignored it.”

“I told you to back away.”

“Why would they ignore evidence?”

“There was no lab report on the sweater, Joanne. No report and no mention of it in the inventory of documents. I saw it all just an hour ago. It showed, definitively, that your daughter drowned herself. There was no struggle, no witnesses on the island who heard any cries for help, nothing that points to anything apart from a girl who wanted to end it all. You said it yourself: she went up and down, she hoped and she despaired. It doesn’t always end well for people like Brenda, Joanne. You have to accept that.”

Cameron was smiling sadly. “There’s a lab report. It was done afterwards. But they wouldn’t reopen the case.”

Hazel hesitated a moment and then lowered the gun and put it back in the holster. She took a step toward Cameron and gently slipped out a necklace tucked into her shirt. It was a lamb dangling from a leather cord. “He couldn’t save Brenda with this,” Hazel said, looking at the talisman with a heavy heart. “What makes you think it can save you?”

“Do you have children, Detective Inspector?”

“Joanne, that has nothing -”

“He dragged my child across the floor. This floor. The varnish, the wood fragments are embedded in the sweater, not just on the surface. What really happened to Brenda is written on what she wore. I still believe you want to see it for yourself.”

Hazel took the evidence bag from Cameron, who stood in front of her with her hands at her sides, empty. Her eyes had gone flat, like someone had turned the lights off in a room, and Hazel realized that this was it, this was as far as Cameron could come on her own and it had cost her everything.

“I’m going to call my partner now, Joanne, and he’s going to come and get us.” She held the evidence bag up between them. “And I’ll take care of this. I’ll bring it to the police lab, I’m willing to do that for you. But it’s all over now, you understand that, right?”

“Yes,” said Cameron quietly. “I do.”

“You’re going to come in and help us put an end to all of this, Joanne.”

She held her radiophone up. “I’m supposed to call at one.”

Hazel looked at her watch: it was five past. “Well, let’s not keep him waiting then. Dial his number. But I’ll do the talking.”

Cameron dialled a number and passed the device to Hazel. She held it to her ear and heard it ringing. “Joanne?” came the voice on the other end.

“Hello, Detective,” Hazel said. “Although I’m ashamed to call you that.”

“Ah,” said Dana Goodman. “How nice to hear from you.”

“Where are you?”

“That’s not important right now. I want to tell you, Detective Inspector, how pleased I am. You’ve done a good job. Now I hope you’ll finish what you’ve started.”

“I’m not doing anything while you still have Colin Eldwin. You tell us where he is, give yourself up, and I’ll do whatever I think is warranted. But right now, I have your evidence in my hands as well as your accomplice – who’s a wreck, thanks to your hard work – so how about you do what I ask before you make things worse for everyone?”

“How about,” he said, and he hemmed like he was trying to work things out, “… yes… how about you dust our friend off and send her on her way and then do what you’re told? How about that?”

“How about Joanne Cameron gives us what we need and you go fuck yourself?” She sidearmed the phone across the room. It hit the dining room wall and shattered.

“He’s not going to like that.”

“Turn around and give me your hands,” Hazel said. Cameron did as she was told, and Hazel had one cuff on when the radiophone she’d dropped when drawing her gun began to ring.

“I think that’s for you,” said Cameron.

Hazel snapped the second cuff closed and picked up the phone. Goodman said, “Please hold while I connect you to your caller.” There was an electronic buzz in the background. It repeated. Then she heard her daughter’s voice.

“Hello?” said Martha.

Hazel’s stomach flipped.

“Who is it?” repeated Martha, and then Hazel heard her own voice, replying:

“Hazel Micallef.”

“Never heard of ’er,” Martha laughed. “What are you doing in town, Hazel Micallef?”

Hazel, her limbs tingling with horror, began moving toward the door as the voice said, “I’ve got some work.” She froze in the middle of the living room.

“Well, this is a nice surprise. You going to come up?”

“Yes.”

Hazel began to shout into the radiophone: “MARTHA! DON’T OPEN THE DOOR!”

“Come in then, you weirdo.”

“MARTHA!!!”

But she heard the buzz and clack of the door to Martha’s building opening. Goodman came back on the line. “Let Joanne go. She’ll call me when she’s sure she’s not being followed. I’ll wait in the lobby for two minutes, and then I’m getting into the elevator.” He disconnected and Hazel stared at the phone in her hand in disbelief.

“You don’t have long,” said Cameron. She held out her wrists.

Numb, her mind racing, Hazel got the keys and unlocked Joanne Cameron.

“I’ll call him – it’ll be okay, I promise,” said Cameron. “I don’t want any harm to come to anyone’s child, you can believe that. Just… keep going, okay? He’s serious.”

“I swear to god, I’ll kill you both.” There was a high shrill sound like the engine of a small plane swimming around the inside of her head and her heart was pounding like a fist.

“He’s getting in the elevator. I’m sorry -”

“We’re going to meet again, Joanne…”

“I know.”

Hazel watched her walk out the front door, her fists curling and uncurling as the sweat poured down the back of her collar. And then as soon as she saw her turn left toward Huron Street, Hazel burst from the house and ran as hard as she could out to Spadina Avenue without looking back. It felt like someone was clubbing her on the base of her spine. When she got to the avenue, a light rain had begun to fall and the air smelled like dust. There were no cabs, but she stepped into traffic and flashed her badge, stopping a kid in a white RAV-4. “Whaddi do?” he squeaked when she tore the passenger-side door open.

“Nothing,” she said, getting in. “You’re going to drive me to Broadview and Danforth as fast as you can.”

“What?”

“You heard me, let’s go -”

“Are you a cop?”

“Jesus Christ, has anyone in this town ever seen an OPS?”

“A what?”

“Just floor it, kid, okay? I’ll take full responsibility.”

The kid murmured okay and hit the accelerator. Martha’s apartment building was on the other side of town. She saw the elevator climbing in its shaft like a bullet leaving a gun.

He couldn’t have been older than seventeen and he drove like he was trying to outrun a missile. She instructed him to pause at red lights and then run them and after a couple of kilometres, the kid seemed to get into it, shooting her wry looks of excitement. “Are we tailing someone?”

“Yeah. Go faster.”

“Am I gonna get on the news?” He shot a red, swerving around a left-turning truck, which honked furiously at them.

“Only if you kill us. You know any shortcuts?”

“Um – I don’t really -”

“You don’t have your licence, do you?”

“I have my G2.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have someone in the car with you when you drive?”

“Um, I have you.”

“Right. Excellent.” They were barrelling along Bloor Street, crossing Sherbourne. She raised Wingate on the radio.

“I was wondering when I was going to hear from you. What happened at the house?”

“I can’t talk right now. You need to get to 1840 Broadview.”

“What?”

“Just get in the car!” She disconnected. The kid didn’t wait for her signal to run the light at Parliament and the rear of the RAV-4 fishtailed a little. She gripped the handle above the door.

“Too fast?”

“No, but watch the traffic coming off the Don Valley Parkway.”

“Man, are we going on the parkway? That’s awesome!”

“We’re not.”

“Oh, so, like you’re drawing the line at the frikking parkway?”

“Watch your mouth. Stay straight.” He honked going through the light at Castle Frank and a gaggle of teenagers crossing the road from Rosedale Heights Secondary School flew apart.

“I hope one of them filmed that,” the kid said.

“Keep your eyes forward,” she said as they crossed the Bloor Street Viaduct. She’d flagged this car seven minutes ago. The kid could drive. “Turn right at Broadview.”

He did and she directed him to Martha’s apartment building, shouting to him to stop when he got there. When she threw the door open, he said, “Hey, you want me to wait?”

“No, I want you to go home. Slowly. And don’t break the law again.”

“Don’t forget your damn sweater,” the kid said, holding the evidence bag out to her. She took it and slammed the door and ran toward the building. The drops of May rain still held a hint of shivery cold in them, or maybe it was the anxiety driving all the blood to her extremities as she traced her finger on the callboard down to the Ps. She buzzed Martha’s apartment and then waited with her heart slamming itself against her ribs. There was no answer and she buzzed again, her breath shallow in her chest, the knuckle of her index finger turning bright yellow against the button, and she unsnapped her holster. She was going to have to blow the electro-maglock open. “Damn it, answer your door, Baby, just answer it!”

She stepped back, levelled the gun at the door, and took the safety off. “Christ,” she muttered as she began to squeeze the trigger. Behind the door, in the dim light of the lobby, she saw one of the elevators open and she raised the muzzle to the widening space. Then she saw it was Martha. Alone. Hazel hurriedly put the weapon back and tried to put a smile on her face. Martha opened the door with a bemused expression, an expression that told Hazel nothing untoward had happened. “Where the hell did you go?” she asked.

“I’m an idiot,” her mother said breathlessly. “I forgot which apartment was yours.”

“I’ve been up and down twice. God, you’re white as a sheet.”

“I ran down the stairs.”

“What? Why?”

“The elevator -” she said, but she couldn’t complete the sentence and had to lean forward and grip the steel frame of the door.

“Well, don’t stand there in the drizzle, then, come in. I’ll put on some coffee.”

Hazel caught her breath and straightened up. “No,” she said.

“No? After all this?”

“I want you to wait here.”

Martha jerked her head back, her mouth creased in perfect confusion. “What?”

“No, you’re right. Come up with me.”

She led her daughter to the elevators, Martha behind her saying, “What the hell is going on?” but she didn’t answer her, just waited for the doors to open again, ready to tear the gun out of its holster. The elevator was empty and she ushered Martha in.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I think someone might be stalking you.”

“What? Nobody is remotely that interested in me.”

The doors opened on the fourth floor and Hazel stepped out. “Wait in the hallway,” she said, but Martha strode around her mother, huffing, and unlocked her apartment door before Hazel could stop her. She had no choice: she rushed forward with the gun drawn and shoved past Martha in the doorway into the living room, spinning with her head tilted and the gun in front of her. She tossed the bag onto the coffee table and stood still, facing the hallway that connected the bedroom and the bathroom. The drawn gun had silenced Martha, and Hazel gestured her into the apartment and down onto the couch. She crept into the hallway and tried to sense movement in her periphery, but both ends of the hall seemed to be empty. She held a palm out behind her to warn Martha to stay where she was and then she moved silently toward the bedroom. It was a mess – anyone casing the apartment would think it had already been tossed – and Hazel could see there was no one in view in the room. She knew Martha’s closet was so packed with crap that no one could hide in it, but she went to check it anyway. She could hear banker’s boxes groaning against the door and she only opened it halfway before closing it again. The bedroom was clear. She retreated down the hallway and heard “There’s no one in the bathroom either,” and she spun, her breath catching, and Martha was walking toward her. She put her index finger lightly on the gun barrel and pushed it down. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on here?”

“I got a call.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It was from downstairs. That wasn’t me in the speaker-phone before. Someone recorded my voice.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“Someone was here?’”

“They’re not here now, though,” said Hazel. “It’s okay now.”

Martha shook her head angrily and walked back into the living room. She sat heavily back onto the sofa. “Do you mean to say you keep track of my every move, imagining all kinds of harm coming to me, living in worry for me, but you didn’t know some creep with a recording of your voice might be paying me a visit?”

Hazel holstered the gun and sat across from Martha, unsure what to tell her. “It’s a live investigation, Martha. I had no idea it was even a possibility. Your dad’s name is on the lease, your number is unlisted. We did all that for a reason.”

“What was that reason again, Mum? Do you think all cops’ kids live in witness protection or something?”

“It was just a thought for your safety.”

“You would never have felt the need to do the same thing for Emilia.”

She’d come here worried for her daughter’s life and now, without so much as the wind changing, they were in familiar territory where Hazel couldn’t save Martha from anything. “I’m sorry,” she said now. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“So now what?”

“I think maybe you should come back home until all this is wrapped up.”

“No fucking way.”

“Martha -”

“I’m thirty-three,” her daughter said. “This is my home. How about I stay here and if it sounds like you’re downstairs, I’ll just pretend I’m not home.”

“Please, Martha.”

Her daughter said nothing. After a moment, the intercom buzzed and Martha blinked twice without moving. “You want to answer that or just shoot it?”

Hazel spiked the call button on the intercom. “Who is it?”

“I’m here,” said Wingate.

“We’ll be down in a minute,” she said. She disconnected and took Martha’s coat off the hook by the door. “I know how pissed off you are at me right now, but I have to insist. I don’t know if you’re safe here.”

After a moment, Martha pushed herself up from the couch, exactly the same gesture Hazel could see in her mind’s eye when, as a teenager, Martha had finally acquiesced to a higher power and reluctantly taken direction. She came to her mother and took the coat from her, lifted it into the air, and put it back on its hook.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said.

“Do you want to know who was here, Martha?” she said, finally furious. “He was a cop once, and right now he’s got a man tied to a chair in a basement somewhere. Although not all of the man. He cut his hand off and sent it to me in a box and then he sliced the man’s ears from the sides of his head and painted a wall with them.” Martha was blanching. “So it’s your choice: put on that fucking coat and come downstairs with me now, or keep your apartment locked up tight and hope he doesn’t know how to kick in a door.”

She told Wingate to take his time going down Broadview, she’d had enough fast living for one day. Martha sat in the back seat, looking out the window in silence.

Wingate spoke quietly. “What the hell happened back there?”

“Goodman happened. But I had her…”

“Who?”

“Joanne Cameron. She was at the house. She gave me this.” She held up the sweater in the evidence bag. “Then Goodman called from the bottom of Martha’s building.”

“Jesus.”

“We have to move quickly now. With the both of them down here – I don’t know what he might do next.”

“That’s the sweater from the picture?”

“Supposedly it proves that Colin Eldwin killed Brenda Cameron.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll tell you something: we lucked out with Toles. He’s not the sharpest biscuit in the tin and he’s probably the only guy at Twenty-one who doesn’t know that Goodman made detective and then went berserk. We have to keep it quiet, but if we can get him to handle the sweater for us, we might have some new evidence we can go to the superintendent with.”

“You sound like you’re onside now, Hazel.”

“I’m getting close. Joanne Cameron is consumed by grief, but Goodman hasn’t put a foot wrong since he sank that mannequin in Gannon. Everything he’s done has been considered and carefully executed. I don’t like him, but he’s too smart to be a loose cannon and if he’s spent three years looking for someone to bring this to Twenty-one’s doorstep again…”

“What? We owe it to him to carry it over the goal line?”

“No,” said Hazel. “We owe it to Joanne Cameron. This woman has lost everything. She deserves an answer.”

“She got her answer, Hazel. If you’re right, he convinced her to disregard it and if she did, that was her decision. Why is it our problem?”

“Because we caught the case, James. And we should see it through.”

“If this is as you say, we’re not going to be welcome at Twenty-one much longer.”

“That’s why we need Toles onside and Ilunga in the dark.”