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Halifax, May 9
8:05 p.m.
Allan drove through a low-rent neighborhood in the north end of the city.
Coasting slowly down the street, he passed a run-down convenience store with lottery signs covering the windows. Three kids on bikes loitered on the sidewalk outside the entrance. Farther on, he came upon a row of old brick apartment buildings. The first one was a condemned shell, gutted by a fire late last fall. Sheets of plywood still covered the windows and main door. Black soot marred the brick. A heavy load of winter’s snow had left a sag in the roof.
Like much of the neighborhood, city officials seemed to have forgotten about the building. No order had been issued for its demolition.
Two buildings up the street Allan found the one he was looking for. The dwelling bore its age, with no attempt at upkeep over the years. Its brick facade was blackened by weather and time. Below the overhanging branch of an elm tree ran a patch of moss down one side. Wrought-iron bars covered the windows of the basement and first floor.
Allan pulled his car to the curb, shut off the engine, and got out.
Five concrete steps led him to a glass door. He opened the door and entered the building. From all appearances the inside reflected as much neglect as the outside. Graffiti defaced the walls. There were holes in the plaster the size of fists. The carpet was stained and smelled musky. The floorboards creaked underneath his step.
Doors ran down both sides of the hallway. In front of him a stairwell rose to the second floor. Grabbing hold of a flimsy banister, he climbed two steps and then stopped. He had seen much poverty in his life, conditions in which no one should have to live. In recent years, the disparity between the rich and poor seemed to be escalating. Yet despite the privation here, there was one small sign of a fight for human dignity in the face of such hardship—a child’s red tricycle sitting above him on the landing.
Cathy Ambré’s apartment was the last door on the right. Allan knocked softly. There was silence. Then came the sound of movement inside. The door cracked open to the length of a safety chain. The woman who peeked out had black curly hair and green eyes. She was wearing a red blouse and black slacks.
“Miss Cathy Ambré?”
The woman’s lips parted. “Yes?”
“I’m Detective Allan Stanton with Halifax Regional.” He flashed his badge and ID card. “Earlier this afternoon you filed a missing persons report about your sister, Trixy.”
Cathy’s throat moved. Her wary eyes moved to his badge, to the folder in his other hand, and then back to his face.
“I did,” she said cautiously. “It’s not bad news, is it?”
“No. But I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”
Cathy hesitated for a moment. “Okay.”
Gently, she shut the door. There was the sound of a chain sliding across a latch. When the door opened again, Cathy drew aside.
“Come in.”
The apartment was small, the furnishings spare and undistinguished. To his left, Allan saw a small, square living room. Inside sat a gray sofa with worn arms. A glass-top coffee table and a twenty-inch television were perched on a wooden stand in the corner. The single window faced Brewer Street. There still remained enough of the setting sun to brighten the room inside.
Opposite the living room was the kitchen. An old electric stove. A table with two place settings. Here and there, pieces of linoleum had peeled off the floor. The sink was empty, the countertop wiped clean. Despite the condition of the building, the apartment was well kept.
Allan noticed Cathy still holding the door open. There was something unhealthy about her. Skin too pale. Dark smudges under her eyes. Body wire thin, almost anorexic. Posture slightly stooped, as if she were suffering from osteoporosis. The most striking feature about her was the staring look of her eyes.
Then Allan saw the raised scars in the crooks of her arms. He studied her for signs that she might be under the influence of drugs. Her pupils were not constricted. Her speech, though soft, was clear, not slurred.
Allan said, “This will take a few minutes, Miss Ambré. You can shut the door.”
She did. Slowly, she shuffled toward him with downcast eyes. The frequent kneading of her blouse revealed her uneasiness. Allan noted the frailty to her steps.
Concerned, he asked, “Are you feeling well?”
She looked up. “I’ve been sick. But I’m getting better.”
He gestured to the living room. “Maybe we should sit down.”
They walked to the sofa and sat. Allan placed the folder on the coffee table and opened it. He read over the missing persons report again. Beside him, Cathy was quiet, watchful.
Attached to the report was the color picture of Trixy Ambré. Allan held it up.
“How recent is this?” he asked.
Cathy said, “I took that at the first of the year.”
“We have your sister on file. She was brought in a couple of times for prostitution.”
A new tone entered Cathy’s voice, one bordering on accusatory. “So you’ll treat Trixy’s disappearance in some cavalier fashion because to you she’s just a hooker?”
Allan paused a moment, taken aback. “We don’t discriminate, Miss Ambré. Your sister’s profession can put her into precarious situations. I came here to see what her demeanor was before she disappeared. Perhaps she’s missing on her own accord.”
Cathy gave him a look of incredulity. “I can’t see Trixy doing that.”
“What was her frame of mind when you last saw her? Was she acting differently?”
“Differently?”
“Secretive or preoccupied about something?”
“No.”
“Was she complaining of anything?”
“No.”
“Tell me about the last moments you saw Trixy...”
