Cut to the Bone. Joan Boswell

class.”

      “Good thing Crystal comes with us. You love our dogs, don’t you, Crystal?” Jay said.

      Crystal nodded but added nothing to the conversation

      Our dogs. That seemed a good indicator that Jay was settling in and accepting her new situation.

      “Let’s hope we all learn a lot tonight. I’ll take Barlow for a quick walk before we go.” For a few minutes Hollis had almost forgotten she was living in the midst of a murder investigation, but in the lobby where residents waited to be interviewed, the crowd jolted her back to reality. She glanced through the large lobby windows and saw parked TV trucks making passage along the narrow street almost impossible. She should have anticipated that the murder would attract journalists and the curious public. After speaking to the policeman at the door, she walked down the drive and ducked under the tape. A mike was pushed into her face.

      “Was it a hooker? How was she killed?” A shower of questions rained down on at her.

      “No comment,” she muttered and dragged a now reluctant Barlow through the crowd toward Avenue Road. On her return, she again refused to answer questions and sped into the building.

      Jay and Crystal sat in the kitchen.

      “Ready?” Hollis said, packing quantities of dog treats into her pockets. Time to hustle the girls away and involve them in the obedience class chaos.

      EIGHT

      After Rhona interviewed the women on the fifth floor she moved to Hollis’s office, where Ian showed her the list of tenants.

      “I’m running all names through our files to see if any of them have a record,” he said.

      “The lobby is full — the uniforms are keeping everyone there.” He handed Rhona a piece of paper. “I thought we’d check off the apartments as we talk to the tenants.”

      “We mustn’t forget to ask if any of the residents have guests or other family members in the apartment,” Rhona said, waving the paper. “None of that information will be here.”

      Coming into the office, Rhona had noted the number of people congregating in the marble-floored sunken lobby. They crowded together on leather sofas arranged on three sides of an oversized square, smoked-glass table that rested on an ornate carved stone base. Others occupied a host of black-and-chrome folding chairs. A few tenants leaned against the walls or sat on the floor.

      “Time to get out there and start bringing them in for interviews,” Rhona said, digging into her bag for her notebook and tape recorder, although in this preliminary go-through she didn’t think she’d need the latter. In the interview rooms at the station, video cameras recorded the interviewees’ facial and body reactions as well as their speech.

      “For our interviews there’s this office, a fitness centre, a party room, a visitor’s apartment, the laundry room, and a sauna on this floor. If you want to use the office I’ll use the party room,” Ian said. He nodded at the crowd. “They removed all the folding chairs to use in the lobby but left the sofas and upholstered chairs.”

      “Good idea. I’ll stay here,” Rhona said.

      When they entered the lobby the conversational buzz diminished. All eyes were on them when they stopped at the top of the four marble steps leading up from the sunken lobby to the first floor. Together they moved sideways behind the wrought iron railing. It was a natural podium. Rhona rapped on the metal with her pen.

      Talk ceased.

      “Good afternoon. Let me introduce myself and my partner. I’m Detective Rhona Simpson and this is Detective Ian Gilchrist. You will be interviewed by one of us. If there is anyone who has medical issues and needs to be first in line, please come forward. Otherwise, please sort yourselves out and follow one another.”

      An elderly woman sitting on a walker stood up, positioned herself between the handles, and creaked forward. She carefully manoeuvred her squeaky machine up the first step without dropping her white plastic handbag. Ian stepped down and offered a hand, but she shook him off. It seemed as if everyone in the lobby held their breath until she reached Rhona. She spoke in a clear, carrying voice. “I’m Agnes Johnson. I should take my heart medicine in fifteen minutes.”

      They progressed slowly to the office.

      Rhona motioned to the visitor’s chair but the woman braked the walker and perched on its seat. “What would you like to know?”

      “Did you know Sabrina Trepanier?”

      “The murdered woman?”

      Rhona wondered who else Ms. Johnson thought she’d be asking about but contented herself with a nod.

      “She was one of those women on the fifth floor, wasn’t she?” Ms. Johnson said, leaning forward and narrowing her eyes as she enunciated those.

      Again Rhona nodded.

      “I didn’t know them but I watched them. I don’t sleep much and from my living room window I see the entrance. I like to keep track of who comes in and out.” A rueful smile. “They might be no better than they should be, but my they have nice clothes. The men with them always walk as if they’re happy.” She tilted her head and frowned. “I didn’t mean to sound critical when I said those.”

      “I’m sure you didn’t.”

      Ms. Johnson cocked her head to one side and grinned. The smile and the twinkle in her eyes made her look younger and hinted at how pretty she must once have been. “If people make other people happy it can’t be all bad, can it?”

      “No.” Rhona smiled at her. “Can you see faces from your window?”

      “I’m on the fourth and that’s too far up to see them, but I do notice how people walk and what they wear. I worked as a security guard at the Royal Ontario Museum. It’s a boring job and I amused myself watching people and guessing about their lives. Now that I’m retired I go to court to see the trials. It’s interesting and it’s free.” She shook her head. “But you know all about that. Imagine me telling a detective how much fun court is.”

      “It is interesting,” Rhona agreed, thinking that Ms. Johnson might be very helpful. Many people she interviewed had poor observation skills and proved useless as witnesses. “Did you see anything odd last night after midnight?”

      Ms. Johnson scrunched her eyes shut for several seconds before she opened them. “Lots of coming and going last night. Surprising because it was a Monday night, but the Ottawa Senators were playing the Leafs.” She grimaced. “They didn’t make the playoffs again and the game doesn’t mean anything, but Toronto fans turn up no matter what. I think there was a rock concert somewhere too. On Q yesterday morning, they interviewed the band. They looked weird but sounded surprisingly normal. I suppose people go out to eat or drink after a game or a show.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I think Ms. Trepanier came in about midnight.”

      Rhona hid her surprise. “How did you know it was her?”

      “She often wears a pink coat. It’s very pretty and easy to recognize.”

      “Was she alone?”

      “No. I can’t tell you anything about the man she was with.” She shook her head. “Sorry, but it was the pink coat I noticed.”

      “Anything else?”

      “No.”

      “Have you lived here long?”

      “Twenty years.”

      “I’ll talk to you again when the investigation is further along. You’ve been helpful.” As she accompanied Ms. Johnson to the elevator, Rhona thought that the security cameras would have recorded Sabrina and her escort.

      “I don’t give a fuck who got killed. It had nothing to do with me and I’ve got a plane to catch.” A stocky, unshaven man swung a sports bag and