Cut to the Bone. Joan Boswell

woman and make sure we’ve done everything possible to find them or the perp that killed them.” He slapped the paper on the edge of the desk. “According to this, there aren’t many cases in Ontario, let alone Toronto, so it shouldn’t take you long, especially with two of you working on it. I want to be able to tell the police commissioner and the mayor that we have a perfect record, that we do not neglect any of our citizens.”

      He must be hoping for a promotion or at least a commendation from the city.

      THREE

      “Hello. Anybody home?” Hollis called after she opened the door.

      No answer. Although easy listening music flooded the apartment, it felt empty.

      “Come in with me,” Ginny said.

      Hollis felt sorry for Ginny and agreed. With Ginny, still clutching the grocery bag, following her like a puppy on a leash, Hollis flicked on the lights in the hall and then in the living room. Two black leather sofas with contrasting red suede cushions aligned at either end faced each other across a gleaming brass-and-glass coffee table. Black velvet drapes were drawn across the window and a white floktari carpet completed the décor, which looked as if it had just been delivered from Leon’s furniture store. When Hollis turned on the kitchen pot lights, they reflected from a black granite countertop and highlighted stainless steel appliances. Only a coffee maker marred the pristine counter. It could have been an advertisement from Home Depot or IKEA. Perfectly appointed, sparkling clean, and empty.

      “Everything is very new,” Hollis said.

      “It is. Fatima thought it needed new furniture.”

      “Fatima?”

      “Yes. I rent the apartment from Fatima Nesrallah. You know that she owns all the apartments on the fifth, don’t you?”

      “Actually, I didn’t. The fees go to the accountant.”

      Hollis knew Fatima and wouldn’t have pegged her as an entrepreneur. People constantly surprised her.

      “Why does it feel spooky?” Ginny whispered.

      Hollis also lowered her voice as they moved down the hall to the two bedrooms. “Maybe because you left all the curtains and blinds shut,” she said as she pushed a door open.

      “This is the master bedroom,” Ginny said.

      An unmade king-size bed with a quilted red satin duvet pulled partly back, piles of silk and velvet pillows tossed on the white rug, along with discarded clothing reflected in the ceiling’s mirrors.

      Mirrors on the ceiling — she wondered if they featured in all the fifth floor apartments. She associated them with honeymoon hotels and bordellos.

      Hollis backed out of the room, colliding with an anxious Ginny. “One to go,” Hollis said.

      Ginny hung on to the shopping bag as if it was a life raft. “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

      “I think it’s contagious,” Hollis confessed as she slowly turned the knob and gently pushed the second bedroom’s door open.

      Blood, urine, and feces — the smell assaulted them.

      “Oh my god,” Ginny whispered.

      Sabrina lay on her back, her throat gaping. Blackened blood stained flowered white sheets, the bedside table, the adjacent wall, and her neatly folded clothes on a chair close to the bed. Blood had spattered her pink coat. Her blood-soaked Snoopy pyjamas added an extra element of pathos to the scene.

      “Sabrina …” Ginny exhaled the word.

      Hollis stepped into the room and touched Sabrina’s cold hand.

      “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Ginny said.

      “She is. We mustn’t touch anything.” Hollis breathed shallowly and stepped back. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen a murder victim, but that didn’t make it easier. She put her hand on Ginny’s arm and turned them both toward the door. “Give me your cell phone to call the police.”

      Ginny placed the groceries on the floor before she dug into her shoulder bag and handed over a pink phone. Watching Hollis, she moaned, “Oh my god. She was nice. Why would anyone kill her?”

      “The police will find her killer.”

      “The police won’t give a fuck,” Ginny said harshly.

      “What?” Hollis stepped back in surprise.

      “Get real. She was a call girl. Cops don’t care about women like us. We’re throwaways.” Ginny bent to retrieve the groceries.

      Call girls.

      Hollis had had no idea. Fatima Nesrallah must be running an escort service. She had noticed that the women who lived on the fifth were an attractive lot, but she’d never suspected what trade they were practising.

      Did the police consider sex trade workers throwaways? Hollis didn’t want to believe it but suspected it was true.

      “Bring the groceries with you,” Hollis said before she punched in 911.

      “This is Hollis Grant, superintendent of the Strathmore Apartments, 68 Delisle Street. A young woman,” she paused. Sabrina’s last name had disappeared from her mind.

      “Yes,” the male voice on the line prompted.

      “A young woman has been murdered.”

      “Are you in danger?”

      “No. She appears to have been dead for some time.”

      Ginny and Hollis rode the elevator in a deep silence, punctuated by Ginny’s occasional sniffle. In Hollis’s office Ginny collapsed on one of the two armless leather upholstered visitor’s chairs, covered her face with her hands, and cried.

      “Ginny, the fire, police, ambulance, the whole response team will arrive in minutes. They’ll talk to us after they’ve been upstairs. We’ve suffered a shock. My knees feel shaky and …”

      Ginny dropped her hands and raised her head. “Me too. I’m all wobbly.”

      “No time for hot, sweet tea but I have orange juice and I’ll get us both a glass. The sugar will help.”

      When the approaching siren screams shattered the morning calm, they gulped the juice and went to meet the police.

      FOUR

      Assigned the task in late April, Rhona and Ian had laboured for more than a week examining files relating to the murder or disappearance of Aboriginal women. Rhona feared they’d find evidence of negligence but none surfaced. Now, on a cool May morning the two detectives faced each another in the homicide office, which hummed with activity.

      “Enough of this,” Ian said, holding up their summation. “We’re finished.”

      Rhona tapped her pen on the desk and surveyed the office. “God knows everyone is busy. We need to do our bit and work on an active case.” Her phone buzzed. “Right. Ian’s here. We’ll be right in,” she said.

      Ian raised an eyebrow.

      “Looks like I got my wish. Frank has a case for us. Bring the report.”

      When they entered his office, Frank was leaning back with his feet propped on his desk’s open bottom drawer.

      “Sit down,” he said, waving a hand at the two steel- and blue-plastic chairs parked in front of him like recalcitrant students appearing before the principal.

      He lowered his feet before leaning forward. “So what did you discover?” he asked.

      Ian handed him the document and summarized their findings.

      A slight smile cracked Frank’s lips. “Good practice for your new assignment,” he said.

      Good