collection.”
“Love to,” Hollis said. The opportunity to pump Poppy had evaporated. How could they uncover the information she seemed to be withholding?
Six
With her detecting supplies stashed in her bag, Hollis set off for Danson’s. Lights shone from the apartments above and below his black windows. She hated entering unfamiliar unoccupied space at night. She’d once been trapped in a dark, deserted church with a murderer and knew this experience partially accounted for the phobia.
That was then, and this was now. She locked her truck, squared her shoulders and marched into the building. Inside, she unlocked Danson’s downstairs door and climbed the broad, once-grand mahogany stairs as if she carried heavy iron bars that increased in weight with each step she took. When she faced his apartment door and slid the key into the lock, her stomach contracted, and her throat dried. She swallowed convulsively but without releasing any saliva. The taste of hard, metallic fear filled her throat.
How could she overcome this paralyzing dread? If she propped the door open, the other tenants would hear her scream. What if they didn’t come? What if they thought it was on a neighbour’s TV and cranked up the sound on their own set?
Scream—what was wrong with her? She’d searched the apartment hours earlier and seen nothing to frighten her and no evidence that anyone else had been there. Silly, silly, silly, she scolded and ordered herself to get a grip.
One deep, calming breath and she opened the door.
Then she retreated to the hall, removed a hefty pad of printing paper from her bag and wedged the door open.
Briefly she contemplated ringing the other tenants’ bells, asking if they knew where Danson was and telling them she would be in his apartment but decided against it. Later, if it became necessary, she’d interview them but not tonight.
Finally, after another steadying breath, she crept into the apartment and flicked on the three light switches just inside the door before she froze and listened. Silence. The bedroom and bathroom doors were closed. Had she shut them when she’d left?
If only she’d brought MacTee.
She really was being silly. Who had ever heard of a golden retriever protecting anyone?
She inched along the hall, flung the bathroom door open and hit the light switch. Earlier in the day she’d bunched the shower curtain back, and it remained just as she’d left it, an empty white room. No one lurked here.
The closed bedroom door came next. She tiptoed to the door, carefully rotated the knob and banged the door open. Nothing moved. The only sound was her breathing and her thudding heart. No one there. She flipped lights on as she progressed from room to room. Nothing. She was alone, totally alone.
Once her heart had resumed its normal rhythm, she started her search in Gregory’s room, confident some item would have his surname, his employer’s name and a contact number to confirm that he was who he said he was.
An old-fashioned maple bed, matching dresser and straight chair, inexpensive white particleboard desk and bedside table furnished the room. Yet another lacrosse poster adorned the walls. A laptop, boom-box and a stack of CDs sat on the desk, a shaving kit rested atop the bureau and several paperbacks, one splayed open, spine up, lay on the bedside table.
What did this tell her?
She’d been through this with Danson’s belongings. Guys didn’t leave without their shaving kits. Furthermore, businessmen seldom parked their laptops at home, certainly not in a temporary pad like this. They might have a desktop at home, but laptops were for travel, for bringing work home from the office. Wherever he’d gone, Gregory hadn’t intended to stay. No, not quite true. He could have a razor, shaving cream and toothbrush at a lover’s or relative’s place. It was peculiar that both he and Danson had left at approximately the same time.
She unzipped the cheap black pseudo-leather case. Not much inside the main compartment besides the essentials for keeping oneself clean and healthy: toothbrush, Colgate toothpaste, Noxzema shaving cream, nail clippers, comb, Advil and an unopened package of condoms. No medical prescription with his name on the label.
The side pocket’s contents told a different story. She’d been building a picture of an innocuous young man, but the tin foil, spoon, matches, hypodermic needle and a baggie of white powder erased that image. Gregory used cocaine, maybe crack, maybe heroin—this equipment belonged to a heavy, not a recreational, drug user. An even more unsettling question—why hadn’t he taken his paraphernalia with him?
Had Danson known? Was he too a drug user? How would Candace react if she found out that he was an addict? Like most family members confronted with unpleasant realities, Candace wouldn’t want to believe it. Fortunately, no evidence supported this idea this far. Back to Gregory.
She dragged the wooden chair to the desk, sat down and found she needed a password to open the computer. Her disappointment was mixed with suspicion. Computers revealed so much about their owners, particularly e-mails and saved files. Few people employed passwords for personal computers. If you had something to hide or weren’t who you claimed to be, of course you’d guard your information. Was this why Gregory’s required a password?
The almost-empty top desk drawer held three Bic ballpoint pens, a yellow legal pad, envelopes, a few paper clips and a calculator. The other drawers were empty except for traces of ancient dust. No bills, no receipts, no address book—nothing to identify Gregory. Granted, he’d moved in recently, but putting herself in the same situation, she would have had address stickers in with the envelopes, extra chequebooks—personalized items you used frequently.
Perhaps his clothes would reveal more. Brand name dress shirts, golf shirts, a tweed sports jacket, grey flannels, chinos and jeans hung in the cupboard. On the floor, black oxfords, brown loafers and worn Nikes. Everything was standard issue, brand-name clothing. She rummaged through the pockets and came up with crumpled tissues, a half-empty package of Lifesavers, a match folder with a gas company logo.
Again—nothing useful. Gregory, the mystery man.
What methods would the police use to identify him? They wouldn’t learn anything from his clothes, but they’d have the expertise to bypass his computer’s password and log in. No doubt this was the motherlode, and they’d come up with a wealth of information. Gregory would remain a mystery to her unless she found information about him in Danson’s computer files.
The big question—would Danson’s computer require a password? She’d been about to open it the other day when Elizabeth and Candace had arrived. She should have followed up immediately—locating Danson was her priority.
In the living room she sat down in front of Danson’s open computer. Disappointment engulfed her. Again she needed a password. Futility marked her evening’s work. She snapped down the lid, unplugged the computer’s cable and packed it in the case she found under the desk. Her last hope was that Candace, who knew many details of Danson’s life, would have the password. She probably shouldn’t remove it from the apartment, but since they only suspected Danson was in trouble, it wasn’t a crime.
If Candace provided the magic word, Hollis would zip through the information in Danson’s computer. If his electronic life was as well-organized as his paper files, she calculated that she could race through the data. She’d transfer whatever struck her as relevant to her own computer. She didn’t allow herself to hope she’d uncover the reason for his
