“There’s a Chestnut Street pretty close to here. Beside City Hall,” he said.
“Church?”
“Not close by. Holy Trinity tucked in behind the Eaton Centre.”
“What else?”
“ Birch Avenue, up at Summerhill. Oh, there’s Elm Street too. That’s close. And there’s a church on St. Patrick Street, right around the corner.”
“Well, let’s go take a look at it,” she said.
He directed her into a U-turn and sent her east along College Street as he continued to study the mapbook.
“I just wanted to thank you again, Andrew.”
“For what?”
“For coming to our aid.”
“Your aid, you mean,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m getting a sushi lunch out of it, don’t forget. Turn right here.”
She drove south down Beverly, cut across Baldwin to McCaul. Elm Street was a short jog south, and they parked illegally and got out. There were no houses on the street, just big apartment buildings and offices. They were behind the hospital strip of University Avenue. Midtown rose up at the end of the street. “Doesn’t feel right,” she said.
They walked down the street. From the top of St. Patrick, they could see the spire of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. But the topography was all wrong. There wasn’t a front porch for miles around. Nor chestnut trees. “Maybe we should go down to City Hall and look around,” she said.
Andrew had the Perly’s open with the story held against one of the pages. He’d narrowed his eyes to slits. “No,” he said. “Listen to this.”
“What?”
“‘He was following her back into the living room,’” Andrew read, “‘as if magnetized to her. He could not tell a lie: he remembered now how much he’d loved her, how, in the beginning, when they lived in that house together, he would have done anything for her.’” Andrew looked up into Hazel’s questioning eyes. “He could not tell a lie. When they lived in that house together? On Cherry Tree Lane?”
“You really have always thought I’m much smarter than I actually am. Spell it out, Andrew.”
“Who cannot tell a lie?”
“Pinocchio?”
“George Washington, dummy.” He shifted the story over to the right-hand page. “There’s a Washington Avenue back off Spadina.”
“Why doesn’t he just say this, if it’s so fucking important to him.”
“I think he wants it to be important to you too.”
“Let’s go.”
Washington Avenue was lined with chestnut trees, and at the end of it there were two small green spaces and, where it made a “T” with Huron Street, a church. They parked and stepped out and a horripilating thrill went up Hazel’s back. It felt now that she had stepped into someone else’s territory and she wasn’t entirely sure that they were safe. “Would you be offended if I suggested you wait in the cruiser?” she asked him and he said he would be, so the two of them set out along the sidewalks to find the house under a chestnut, with a verandah and a view of both parks and the church. The houses on the south side of the street didn’t afford these views, so they focussed on the northern side of the street. Those houses closer to Spadina lacked the necessary vantage, and they ruled out the first half of the street. Four big Victorian duplexes took up the second half of the street, two with verandahs and two without. But only one stood directly in the shade of a chestnut tree, number thirty-two. Like all of these houses, many of which were owned by the university, number thirty-two was divided into apartments. There were five of them and five buzzers under different names. They buzzed P. Billows, J. Cameron, G. Caro, and D. Payne before they got a response. It was a woman’s voice. “Hello?”
“Police, Ma’am, sorry to disturb you. Who am I speaking to?”
“How do I know you’re the police?”
“I’m in a police uniform and I have police ID. Those will be your first two clues.”
There was a pause, and they heard a window open above their heads. A young woman in jeans and a white T-shirt leaned out to the side of the verandah with her portable phone to her ear. Hazel held her ID up over her head. “What do you want?” said the woman.
“You’re Miss Caro? Or Miss Payne?”
“I’m Gail Caro. What do you want?”
“I wanted to ask you if there have been any recent disturbances in this house. Anything out of the ordinary, anything that required the attention of the police?”
“Like what?”
“I’m asking you. Anything.”
“No.”
“Do you know everyone who lives in this house?”
Her attention had tracked over to Andrew, who was standing with his back to the house, looking down the street. “Who’s that? He’s not in uniform.”
“Plainclothes,” she said, and she could see Andrew stifling a grin.
“How’d you get here? Where’s your car?”
Jeez, thought Hazel. She’d forgotten how paranoid city life could be. She pointed toward Huron Street, to the cruiser, and the woman leaned farther out the window and looked at it.
“So,” said Hazel. “Who do you know in the house?”
“No one. I see them on the stairs, but I live alone. People come and go from places like this.”
“Is there a basement in the house?”
“There’s storage.”
“Could we come in and look at it?”
Caro paused. “Just hold on a second,” she said, and she closed the window.
“Are you sure you want to go in there?” asked Andrew.
She laid her hand on her Glock. “That’s why I asked you to stay in the car.”
“Don’t you need a warrant?”
“I thought you were the lawyer here, Andrew.”
“I don’t need to know about warrants to settle property disputes.”
“We have cause to enter the premises. And anyway, if she consents, we don’t need a warrant.”
They waited on the porch. After a couple of minutes, Hazel buzzed Caro’s apartment. There was no answer. “I don’t like the feel of this.”
“Let’s go.”
She stood back from the door and called up to the now-closed window. “Miss Caro?” There was no reply.
“Hazel?”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Hazel,” said Andrew, his hand on her forearm. She turned to the street and saw a police car driving up. “The local cavalry have arrived.”
The black-and-white cruiser pulled up in front of number thirty-two, and Hazel saw a man and a woman in the car; the female cop was talking into her radio. “Shit,” she said.
The officers got out of the car. They were both tall and well built, a pair of stars. “Good morning,” said the male officer, coming up the walk. He was inventorying them both quickly, deciding whether this was going to be routine or not. “What seems to be the problem?” The casual opener, thought Hazel. “Can I see some ID, Ma’am?”
“I’m OPS, Officer. I presume you’ve seen the uniform before.”
“Nature of the call, Ma’am. I just have to be sure.”
She got her ID out, and he took it from her, flipped it open. He studied it briefly and handed it back to her, saying, “Detective Inspector.” He looked at Andrew. “You’re not OPS, Sir?”
“No.”
“She said he was plainclothes,” called a voice from above. It was Gail Caro. “They don’t look like cops. You can get a policeman’s costume from a hundred stores in this town.”
“It’s okay,” called the officer. His nametag said K. Hutchins. “They’re provincial, Ma’am.” He had his arm on Andrew’s elbow and turned to his partner. “Constable Childress will keep you busy for a couple of minutes, Sir. I’m going to talk to your, um, partner.”