to my knowledge,” Shoe said.
“No idea,” his father said.
Rachel said, “I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Schumacher?” Lewis said.
“I don’t know,” Shoe’s mother said.
Lewis scribbled in her notebook, then asked, “Do the families of any of the other victims still live around here?”
Shoe’s father said, “The only ones we knew were Marty’s folks.”
“The McKinnon girl and her family moved away not long after her attack,” Shoe’s mother said.
Lewis looked at Shoe.
“I don’t know where Miss Hahn or the park worker lived,” he said.
“All right,” Lewis said. “We’ll check it out. One last thing. Is there anyone else who still lives in the area who knew Mr. Cartwright?”
“Let’s see,” Shoe’s father said slowly, rubbing his stubbly chin. “There’s Dougie Hallam and his sister, Janey. Stepsister, actually. I’m pretty sure they knew Mr. Cartwright. Dougie did, anyway. He was one of the boys that played tricks on him. Don’t know for sure if Janey knew him or not.” He looked at Shoe.
“No better than I did,” Shoe replied, as memories of Janey Hallam bubbled up from the recesses of his mind. Janey had been his first serious girlfriend, the one with whom he had shed his virginity — at a far too tender age, he recalled with a high degree of discomfort — and with whom he’d once believed he’d spend his whole life. He was surprised she still lived in the neighbourhood; the last time he’d seen her, shortly after she’d graduated from high school a year behind him, she’d told him she’d taken a job as flight attendant and was leaving Downsview forever. Did she remember him as well as he remembered her? he wondered. Or as fondly? Perhaps he would look her up, he thought, see how she’d turned out. Or was that a rock better left unturned? He had no desire to resume the acquaintance of her stepbrother, Dougie.
“And there’s Tim Dutton,” Shoe’s father said.
The name triggered a memory of a stocky boy with freckles and unruly red hair. Tim Dutton’s father had opened one of the first so-called “big box” hardware and building supply stores in the area and had become quite wealthy, although he’d continued to live with his wife and two children in the modest three-bedroom house they’d bought the year before Shoe’s parents had bought theirs. At one time or another, Bart Dutton had provided most of the neighbourhood kids with summer jobs. Tim, though, had been the boss’s son and had made certain that everyone understood and appreciated the fact.
“There’s no one else I can think of,” Shoe’s father said.
“Ms. Schumacher,” Lewis said to Rachel. “Do you remember the names of the other kids Cartwright invited into his house?”
Rachel was lost in thought for a moment, then said, “Besides Marty, the only ones I remember are Mickey Bloom and Bobby Cotton.”
“Those are boy’s names?”
Rachel nodded. “But I have no idea where they are now.”
“Thank you,” Lewis said. She closed her notebook and slipped it into the side pocket of her jacket. “That should do it for now. We appreciate your help. If we need anything else, someone will be in touch.” She shook hands with Shoe’s father, mother, and sister.
“I’ll see you out,” Shoe said.
Timmons had a cigarette in his mouth before the front door was even open, but he did not light it until he was outside. A plain grey Chrysler Sebring was parked on the street in front of the house, so nondescript it all but shouted “Police.”
“Is there something else?” Lewis asked.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Shoe said.
“I have the feeling I should,” she said. “Have we met before?”
He half hoped she wouldn’t remember. She’d been just sixteen the last time he’d seen her, at Sara’s funeral. Then he saw the blink of recognition.
“Oh, shit,” she said. “You’re Joe Shoe.”
“That’s right. And you’re Hannah Mackie.”
“Lewis now, although I’ve been divorced forever.”
She silently scrutinized him for a moment. He’d never seen anyone else with eyes quite like hers. Besides the unusual colour, there was something else about them, a quality he couldn’t quite pin down, as though they were capable of perceiving things no one else could. He’d heard of people whose eyesight extended slightly beyond the so-called visible spectrum, like certain types of raptors. Was she one of them?
“Funny, my not remembering your full name,” she said.
“Perhaps you never knew it. To everyone, I was always Joe Shoe. Or just Shoe.” Even Sara had called him Shoe.
“You, um, look different. And not so tall.”
He smiled. “You’re taller. How’s your brother?”
“Okay,” she said. “He has a copy and print shop now. He tried security after — after leaving the police, but it didn’t work out. I don’t see much of him. This job keeps me busy and he’s — well, we never were all that close.”
In fact, Shoe remembered, Hannah hadn’t got along at all with her older brother. Eighteen years her senior, and her legal guardian since their parents had died in a road accident when she was twelve, Ron Mackie had been overprotective to the point of tyranny. Not that Shoe had blamed him. In his short time with the Toronto police he’d seen far too many young women dead of drug overdoses, beaten to death by their pimps or jealous boyfriends or drunken husbands, raped and murdered by friends and strangers alike, or simply discarded like yesterday’s trash. In his ten years as a street cop, Ron Mackie had seen much more.
“How does he feel about you being a cop?” Shoe asked her.
“He pretends he’s okay with it, but he doesn’t really like the idea of his baby sister being a cop any more than he liked his wife being one.” A flush highlighted her sharp cheekbones. “Uh, sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Shoe said. “It was a long time ago.”
“Yeah.” There was a moment of awkward silence.
“What do you do in Vancouver?” Detective Constable Timmons said, cigarette smoke spilling from his mouth. “Not still on the job, are you?”
“No,” Shoe said. “I do some consulting, but mostly I’m semi-retired.”
“What sorta consulting? Security?” Timmons asked, dropping his cigarette butt onto the pavement, grinding it out under the sole of a steel-toed shoe.
“I investigate companies other companies are looking to acquire.”
“Interesting work?”
