Cut to the Bone. Joan Boswell

please come into the office.”

      Inside, he refused to sit and Rhona too continued to stand. She didn’t intend to allow this man to tower over her.

      “Barney Cartwright. I live on the sixth.”

      “Did you know the deceased, Sabrina Trepanier?”

      “I knew what they did,” Cartwright replied.

      Rhona sensed he was lying. “That wasn’t what I asked. Let me be straightforward. Have you ever been a client of any woman on the fifth floor?”

      Cartwright shifted from one large black unpolished shoe to the other.

      “You did understand the question?” She’d bluff. “You do know they keep records and it’s not in their interest to keep secrets.”

      “Once or twice,” he said, chin jutting forward. “So what?”

      “Once or twice. Who did you see?”

      “Fatima.”

      “And?”

      “Sabrina.”

      “When was that?”

      Cartwright grunted, “I don’t know. I’ve been away. Before that.”

      How to phrase her next question. “When you visited Ms. Trepanier, did you ever talk about anything personal?”

      “I might have. She didn’t. I wasn’t paying her for chit-chat about herself,” he said. His brows drew together. “I have a plane to catch.”

      “Where were you last night?”

      “My place. I watched TV and went to bed.” He stared at Rhona. “I hope you’re not going to say what I think you’re going to say.”

      “Can anyone verify that?”

      “What the fuck do you think? Of course not.”

      Rhona knew he wouldn’t react well to her next statement. “I’m sorry, but you’re not going anywhere.”

      She ducked out of the office before the boiler blew and motioned a thin, unprepossessing young man to join her.

      Rhona watched him approach. Nothing distinctive about him. Middle height, average weight, short, light brown hair — an unremarkable man in his thirties.

      “Tim, Tim O’Toole, I work a four-to-twelve shift, so I thought I’d better be one of the ones who talked to you first.”

      He stretched out his hand. His grip was minimal. It reminded Rhona of holding wet, cold pasta, slimy and sticky simultaneously.

      “Did you know Ms. Trepanier?”

      “Sabrina. Oh yes, a beautiful woman.” His lips curved into a smile that revealed uneven teeth. “Oh, yes.”

      “Did you ever talk to her?”

      “Oh, no. Woman like that don’t talk to men like me.” His smile faded into an apologetic grimace. “The women who talk to me are the ones in grocery stores, women who have to speak to me.”

      What young man would say something like that? He wasn’t movie star handsome, but there was nothing wrong with his looks.

      “Where were you last night?”

      A quick glance to either side. “Oh, I go out,” he said in a voice so low Rhona strained to hear. “I don’t get home from work until almost one and I can’t sleep, so I walk the streets at night.” He produced a rueful smile. “Ever since I worked as a watchman, I got used to being awake at night.” He produced a tiny smile. “You couldn’t call it a night life, but it’s definitely a nocturnal life.”

      “Where do you work?”

      “At Sobey’s supermarket. I stock the shelves.” He shrugged. “Not a great job, but if you don’t want to work in the daytime, there isn’t a huge choice.”

      A second nocturnal witness was a plus. She hoped he was as observant as Agnes Johnson.

      “Did you see anything unusual last night?”

      He appeared to be running a mental video. “Oh, not here. All sorts of people coming and going, though. The fifth floor women are busy, busy women.”

      “Have you ever used their services?” Rhona asked.

      His small, pale blue eyes widened, showing yellow, blood-streaked whites. “Oh, not me. Never.” He bent forward, releasing an enveloping cloud of pungent aftershave. “Oh, I’d like to, but I don’t imagine I could afford to.”

      Rhona felt an urge to laugh. It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. Maybe she should suggest he save up and give himself a treat.

      “Perhaps when we run the tapes to see who came and went last night, you could help identify people.”

      He leaned even farther forward, overwhelming her with his aftershave. “Oh, I’d like to help the police. Just let me know.”

      When he’d gone, she checked how many were waiting and rendezvoused with Ian, whose most recent interviewee had walked down the hall.

      “How’s it going?” she said.

      “It’ll take us a while to sift through this mob and find out who might have had cause. Nobody so far lit up the red buttons. How about you?”

      “Two residents who are up at night. One, Agnes Johnson, sits at her window and doesn’t seem to miss anything. The other didn’t offer any information. Also spoke to one angry man who admitted using our murder victim’s services. Not bad for starters.”

      “Next I’m talking to the construction workers repairing the balconies. Ms. Trepanier’s window was open, and scaling the scaffolding the extra few feet to reach it would have been a cinch for any of those guys.”

      That could be promising.

      NINE

      Chaos reigned in the hangar-like room where ten dog owners, supporters, and puppies awaited their lesson. Hollis, Jay, and Crystal fought to control the overexcited Barlow, who lunged forward, barking and whining to be allowed to socialize with each and every dog.

      Previously, Hollis had taken him to young puppy training, where his one claim to fame was being the only puppy not to pee on the floor. Hollis had spent hours trying to train him to walk on a loose leash, rather than hauling her along in his wake. She’d become a devotee of Cesar Millan, the National Geographic channel’s dog guru, and adopted his ideas of dog psychology. Most of the time Barlow accepted her as the alpha dog and, except on occasions like this, even eleven-year-old Jay could control him.

      Waves of ammonia-laden air forced Hollis to breathe shallowly, but she’d signed what she suspected was a legal agreement with the breeder committing her to enroll Barlow in dog training classes. She’d vowed to herself that she’d turn the willful, headstrong puppy into a well-behaved dog.

      Chris, the rotund instructor, who wore a too-small purple T-shirt with “City Dog” blazoned across her ample chest, bellowed over the cacophony of barking. “Please take a seat and listen.”

      Metal folding chairs scraped on the concrete floor as dogs and owners settled down. It wasn’t quiet, but the decibel level had dropped. Hollis, anchoring Barlow close to her with a short leash and an iron grip, invited Crystal and Jay to sit on either side, knowing their barricading presence would prevent Barlow from launching himself at any dog parked next to him. Sitting in the third and last row of chairs, she observed the crowd.

      Mabel, the adorable low-energy St. Bernard, leaned on her owner, a pretty, petite blonde woman. MiMi, the impossibly tiny teacup Chihuahua, was huddled under her owner’s chair, tail tucked between her legs. Hollis thought that if she was that small in a surging mass of half-grown dogs, she’d hide too. Three rescue dogs of indeterminate parentage along with a