their income tax forms,” Ginny said. “Personal assistant is a joke. We’re escorts.”
“I suppose personal assistant isn’t exactly a lie, it’s another way to describe what you do,” Rhona said. “Were you good friends with Ms. Trepanier?”
The question upset Ginny, whose chin quivered before she burst into tears. Through her sobs she said, “Yes. She was so nice. Why would anyone do this?”
“That’s what we’ll find out. Hollis, did you know the victim? Why were you in her apartment?”
“When Ginny woke she popped over to Bruno’s to buy food and didn’t take her key, because she thought Sabrina would be up and would let her in when she returned. When she couldn’t get her on the phone, she worried that something had happened and asked me to open the door.”
“Did you know the dead girl?” Rhona asked.
“I’ve only worked here a couple of months. The job keeps me busy but I did chat with her on several occasions, never about anything important. The dogs attracted her. In fact, one day when she patted MacTee, she cried and told me how much she missed her family’s Golden.”
Rhona made a move toward the door. “I’ll be back later to talk to you about the other tenants.”
Hollis glanced at the clock. “At three thirty I pick up my foster child at her school.”
“Foster child?” Rhona’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “Have you had a mid-life crisis? You’ve changed everything.”
Hollis nodded. “Not everything. I’m painting. That’s why I took this job — to give me time to paint and have an apartment with room for Jay and the dogs.”
“One more question. Did the victim seem afraid? Did she ever talk to you about anything that was bothering her?” Rhona addressed the question to both Ginny and Hollis.
“Not to me,” Hollis said and looked at Ginny.
Ginny shook her head.
Rhona glanced at the bank of security monitors. “The info from those should help. We’ll take all the stored info. We’ll talk more later.”
Hollis was left wondering how to tell Jay and her friend, Crystal, about the murder without terrifying them.
FIVE
Rhona and Ian divided responsibilities and assigned officers to control the waiting group in the lobby until they could interview them.
As they contemplated the crowd, the forensics team and the coroner, a tall, thin black man, arrived. The two detectives accompanied them to the murder scene, where all donned protective footwear and gloves.
Inside the small, bloody bedroom, Rhona looked at the figure on the bed and sighed. Death was never easy to contemplate and this murder had been a gruesome one. It was hard to know for sure, but the woman appeared to have been young and beautiful. What a waste.
The coroner made his preliminary exam before the body was removed to the morgue.
“What can you tell us?” Ian said.
The man shrugged. “Because the window was open and the room was cool, I’d estimate she was murdered sometime after midnight. As we see, the assailant slashed her throat with what must have been considerable force and a sharp knife. She was lying on her back. Because of her position I’d say the attacker stood on the left side of the bed and used his right hand or both hands. She doesn’t appear to have resisted nor does she seem to have been raped. I believe she died almost instantly. I’ll tell you more after the autopsy.”
“Thanks. Now we’ll ask the residents where they were and what they were doing last night,” Rhona said.
“Most will say they lived alone, were in bed, and had no one to vouch for them,” Ian grumbled.
“Too true. I’ll talk to the women on this floor. Ian, get Ms. Grant to provide you with a copy of the building’s plans and a list of the residents. We will also need former tenants’ names, ones who had lived in the building as long as Ms. Trepanier. As Ms. Grant hasn’t worked here for long, when we interview those in the lobby we’ll make sure to note their apartment’s location and the length of time that they’ve lived here.”
Upstairs, the other women living on the fifth were at home. Rhona had sent a uniform along to ask each to remain inside and wait for the interview. She began with the tenants living adjacent to Ginny.
The door directly across the hall opened as she raised her hand to press the buzzer. A quick glimpse at the door revealed a peephole — a good idea for any door and not one that Rhona had in her own building.
“Come in.” A plump woman with enormous black eyes heavily fringed with what had to be false eyelashes stepped back to allow Rhona inside.
The woman was shorter than Rhona. Addicted to high-heeled cowboy boots to increase her height, Rhona always measured herself against others. She’d done it since childhood. As a police officer she’d found it helpful because it allowed her to position herself so that interviewees or perps seldom towered over her. She always insisted tall interviewees sit down, and she herself never chose low, squashy chairs or sofas.
“Fatima Nesrallah,” the woman said, extending a tiny, ring-encrusted hand with scarlet fingernails topped with gold dust. A musky scent surrounded her.
Rhona shook the woman’s hand and followed her into a living room airlifted from a north African souk, with oriental carpets, leather ottomans, silk-draped lamps, and lots and lots of polished metal. Several brass trays rested on black lacquered bases and acted as end tables and a coffee table. Brass bowls abounded, some filled with rose petals, others with nuts and dates. Brass candle holders held fat white candles.
“Please, sit down. May I offer you Turkish coffee?” Fatima asked.
Rhona anticipated that Fatima Nesrallah would make a superior brew. Although Rhona realized coffee would keep her awake, it wouldn’t matter, for in all likelihood she wouldn’t see her bed until very late. “I would,” she said.
While they waited she took in the room. Everything in it would conspire to make a man feel adventurous, as if he’d ventured deep into the Kasbah and was about to experience whatever went on behind the closed doors of that exotic setting.
Fatima returned with coffee and baklava. “I don’t make it. I buy it from Artez, a wonderful Lebanese bakery on Eglinton,” she said.
In her head Rhona repeated the name, determined to visit the bakery at a later date. After she sipped the dark, aromatic coffee, she complimented Fatima before she said, “Time for questions. I understand you own all the apartments on this floor and rent them to women.”
“I do. I did well in the market and invested in real estate,” Fatima said.
“You run an escort agency for them.”
“For some I do the booking and check out the clients,” Fatima said.
“Online advertising?”
“Indeed. It’s made for businesswomen.”
Rhona
