with friends, including Gregory.
Don’t know if you remember me? We took Soc 300 together. I was in George’s section, and he tells me you might have a room to rent. I’m going to be on the road in the Toronto area next week. Would you be interested in giving me a Toronto base? Let me know soon. Cheers, Gregory.
She recalled her own university days. The classes always held dozens of people you nodded to but didn’t know. Almost anyone could say they’d been a friend, and you wouldn’t have a clue. If you were a nice person, you wouldn’t want to write back and say that you didn’t have the vaguest idea who the person was. What a great ploy to infiltrate someone’s life. She double-clicked on Gregory’s message to see if his surname came up. It didn’t.
[email protected] was the e-mail address. She connected to e-mail and dispatched a message to Gregory asking where he was and if he knew where to locate Danson.
She opened the “sent” folder to read Danson’s corres-pondence with Gregory.
“Not sure I remember you but come and see me when you’re in Toronto. I’m interested in renting the room.” Then she searched for exchanges with George and found nothing. Maybe Danson had phoned to verify Gregory’s bona fides.
Back to the Gregory and Danson’s e-mails. They’d decided Gregory would drop in on September 10 to see the room and, if it suited him, arrange to move in. When had this been? Mid-September, almost a month ago. His most recent phone bill might have numbers.
When she’d returned from Danson’s, she’d bundled the photocopies of Danson’s documents and left the pile on her work table. Now she trundled over, sorted through the stack and extricated September’s phone records. Area codes—what was Montreal’s? Back to her desk, where she logged on to Canada 411. 514 was the code.
An examination of the phone records. Bingo. Four numbers in the 514 area. No time like the present—she’d call.
First one. “This number is no longer in service.” There had been two other calls from that number. Presumably this one had belonged to Gregory, who’d cancelled the service.
The fourth call rang and rang. Finally someone answered. “Âllo. C’est un téléphone publique. Personne est ici.”
French. How did she ask? High school French to the rescue. “Où est le téléphone situé?”
“Concordia University,” the respondent said, switching into English when she heard Hollis’s poor attempt at French.
The call from the university could have been anyone. No help from Montreal. Where did that leave her? For the moment she’d give up on Gregory. She moved to the next heading on her list—recent phone calls.
The land line wasn’t going to help—she only had September’s bill. Too far back. She needed October’s. The most recent calls made from his cell phone would tell her something.
At Danson’s apartment she’d copied the numbers along with his address book—it had taken forever, and she’d wondered if she was wasting her time. Now she’d get the answer.
Danson’s phone, a Motorola, had saved the ten most recent messages.
On the Sunday before he disappeared, he’d called Poppy three times during the afternoon. Interesting that she hadn’t mentioned it. Later that day there had been a call to a Toronto number. She dialed and allowed the phone to ring on, hoping there would be an answering machine. No such luck.
He hadn’t called Candace that Sunday evening. It had been his regular time to call, but he hadn’t done so. He’d been home Sunday afternoon, gone out and not returned.
She booted up her computer, typed Canada 411 and found that the number he had called was “unlisted”. Another dead end.
On the Friday there had been a call to the nightclub where he worked and a second one that she dialed. A lilting woman’s voice told her she’d reached the correct number, asked her to leave a message then wished her a happy day.
“My name is Hollis Grant. I’m trying to locate Danson Lafleur. Please call me.”
The other three calls connected to answering machines. She left the same message on each one.
Discouraged didn’t begin to describe how she felt.
Seven
"Hi Howis, waffles,” Elizabeth said and launched herself at MacTee.
“Anything on his computer?” Candace asked.
“I went through his recent phone messages first and didn’t get any leads. As for his computer, he saved many messages, which is a good thing, but none have provided clues about his whereabouts.”
In the kitchen Candace placed the ingredients to build combinations to order on the counter. Elizabeth, given the opportunity to choose, surveyed the plates and bowls.
“Strawberries, bananas, finger puppets, yoghurt,” she said.
“Finger puppets?” Hollis asked.
“That’s her name for raspberries, because she can put them on her fingers,” Candace explained. She spoke to Elizabeth. “You forgot the magic word.”
“Please,” Elizabeth said, and they smiled at one another.
Plates loaded, they ate in silence for a few minutes.
Hollis rose, plucked the coffee pot from the machine and refilled their coffee mugs. “I’m curious about Gregory, the invisible tenant without a surname. You haven’t remembered what it is, have you?”
“No. Danson told me a Montreal friend gave his name to Gregory. That’s not much help, is it?”
“I figured out that much from the e-mails. The friend’s name was George Rostov. Does that mean anything?”
“I met George once or twice. He and Danson lived in the same student housing their first year at Concordia.”
“I’ve downloaded his address book, and I’m contacting every name to see if anyone knows where he is. I’ll also ask George about Gregory.”
“Should I be doing this?”
“You could, but since I have the names and addresses, it’s easier if I do.”
Hollis, acknowledging the size of the task, had reluctantly relinquished her plan for a Centre Island visit. “When I return the computer late this afternoon, I plan to talk to the other tenants. Since it’s Sunday, they may be home. I’ll see if either one has any idea where he might have gone or can report anything unusual.”
“There must be something I can do,” Candace said as she collected the dishes and opened the dishwasher.
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