Cut to the Bone. Joan Boswell

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 could have pushed further, but she wanted to catch a killer, not an entrepreneur.

      “Did you know Ms. Trepanier well?”

      The woman sipped and considered the question. “Not well. None of the women who live on this floor are close. When we meet we talk only about non-important things.”

      “How long have you been here?”

      “Four years. Since they created these lovely apartments.”

      “I am not interested in the details of your lives except as they relate to Ms. Trepanier. Has she ever spoken of being afraid?”

      Fatima laughed without conveying any sense of mirth. “Afraid? When you do what we do you’re always a little bit afraid. We didn’t have much in common. I’m from Lebanon, a Middle Eastern woman, and she was a classic American cheerleader type. I can tell you she was kind. Ginny’s new to Toronto and Sabrina made a point of taking her under her wing.”

      “Did Sabrina have friends or family in the city?”

      “I don’t ask personal questions or note who goes in or out of any of my apartments, but I’d say not.”

      “How do men find you?” Rhona asked.

      “We advertise. We’re officially ‘escorts.’ All legal,” Fatima said, watching Rhona to see how she’d react.

      “Directly, or do you have someone who vets the callers?”

      Fatima broke off a morsel of baklava and chewed slowly. Rhona figured the woman was giving herself time. “The young women pay me rent and some ask me to check out new callers. As I’m sure you know, a bad apple registry exists. If any of the women have trouble with a client, we add his name to that list. Otherwise they have regulars and don’t consult me.”

      “Do you keep records?”

      Fatima smiled but said nothing.

      Rhona realized she wasn’t going to answer and changed the topic. “Do you have your own list of unwelcome customers?”

      “We all use the websites for that.” Fatima smiled. “There are enough lovely men who appreciate bright, pretty women they can take to events, to hotels, or visit here. We don’t need the weirdos.”

      “We’d like the names of men who gave you or the other women trouble, particularly if they were Ms. Trepanier’s or Ms. Wuttenee’s clients.”

      “Ms. Wuttenee’s?”

      “The attack occurred in her apartment. Perhaps the killer intended to murder her,” Rhona said.

      Fatima considered their request.

      “Give us the leads and we’ll do the rest,” Rhona assured her.

      SIX

      Jay and her eleven-year-old friend, Crystal Montour, backpacks bouncing, bounded through the Deer Park schoolyard. Jay hugged Barlow and MacTee before greeting Hollis. Crystal trotted after Jay and contented herself with patting the two dogs.

      Hollis waited until the crowd of children, nannies, and parents thinned before she stopped.

      “Girls, I have something terrible to tell you. I wish I could soften the impact of what I’m about to say.”

      Both children waited.

      “Sabrina Trepanier, who lived on the fifth floor of our building, was murdered last night,” Hollis said.

      Neither child said anything for a moment while they processed the information.

      Jay recovered first. “Do we know her?” she said.

      When she heard Sabrina’s name, Crystal’s hands had flown to her mouth. “Oh, that’s awful. Awful, awful.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Sabrina is friends with Ginny who also lives on the fifth floor. Is Ginny okay?” Her eyes fixed on Hollis. She lowered her hands. “Ginny’s my friend. She’s an Indian like me and she’s beautiful.”

      “She