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Halifax, May 10
8:30 p.m.
Allan’s day had not gone well at all.
His second canvass of the waterfront turned up no witnesses. One particular apartment building overlooking the crime scene left him feeling hopeless.
103 – “Did you hear of the offence?”
“Heard about it.”
“What knowledge of the crime do you have?”
“Only what I saw on the news last night.”
“And what was that?”
“That a man was murdered on the waterfront. Security guard, I think.”
“How was the man murdered?”
“Shot, wasn’t he? Wait, they didn’t say.”
114 – “Don’t know nothin’.”
123 – No answer on second visit.
130 – “Heard it was over drugs.”
“From whom?”
“No one. Just heard it.”
“Did you know the victim?”
“No.”
“Were you on the crime scene on the morning in question?”
“No. Why all the questions? I have nothing to hide.”
137 – No answer on second visit.
145 – “Never even knew there was a murder down there.”
“It’s all over the news.”
“Don’t watch or listen to the news. Too depressing.”
154 – “Heard about it on the radio. That would explain all the roadblocks. I was nearly late for church.”
Through his years on the force, Allan learned that many people were reluctant giving information to the police. Either they were afraid for their own safety if they ratted on someone, they didn’t want to make a court appearance, or they simply didn’t want to get involved.
Nobody out at the bars was talking either.
Allan had spent the remainder of his day talking to friends and relatives of Brad Hawkins. Listening to their stories, Allan felt the loss of a young man he had never known. But soon he would know every intrinsic part of his life.
His parents couldn’t be reached. Allan decided to leave them with their grief.
Now, as he drove home, he felt exhausted and frustrated.
The night sky was swathed with black clouds. The air was damp but fresh and fragrant with the smell of spring flowers in bloom.
When he got home, he went right upstairs, locked his handgun in its case, and crawled into bed.
He didn’t know how long he had slept when the telephone woke him up. Groggy, he looked over at the clock on the night table. Red numbers glowed in the dark: 12:18. He reached out and snapped on the bedside lamp. Then he picked up the phone.
“Detective Stanton?” The female voice on the other end sounded swollen with emotion.
It took Allan a moment before he realized who the person was.
“Miss Ambré?” He propped himself up on one elbow, his curiosity suddenly piqued.
“You told me to call you anytime.” There was a brief pause. “I know it’s late. I hope I didn’t wake up your family.”
Somehow, her last phrase struck a deep chord within Allan. Once more, the quiet of the house, the emptiness in the bed brought back that familiar ache of loneliness.
Closing his eyes, he said, “Don’t worry about it. How are you holding up?”
He heard the soft intake of breath.
“Not well at all,” Cathy choked. “I’m having trouble sleeping, trouble eating. I know something bad happened to Trixy. It’s not like her to go off somewhere and not contact me.”
Allan paused as he imagined Cathy teetering on the edge of emotional collapse. To him, one of the worst tragedies was losing a loved one without ever knowing that person’s fate. The seesaw of hope and grief brought on by such events do terrible things to a person. One moment, mourning the loss. The next, hoping the person will come home safe. Sleep can be haunted by nightmares of the loved one being killed or tortured or held captive in some inhumane way. Endless nights can be spent staring out a window, waiting for that person to finally come home. The ring of a telephone or a knock at the door can start the heart racing. After a time, any news, good or bad, becomes welcome.
Allan said, “We’re doing everything we can to find her.”
“Have you checked to see if her cell phone’s been used?”
“It hasn’t been used since her disappearance. They also couldn’t ping it.”
“So they can’t locate it. How is that possible?”
“The battery could’ve died. It could be something as simple as that.” Allan expelled a short breath. “Grief is a natural reaction to a case like this, Miss Ambré. I know this is a traumatic time for you. But you need to hang in there. Have some faith.”
It was strange, he reflected, to tell this woman to keep her hopes alive when his own had already faded.
Voice piping, Cathy said, “I don’t think I can make it through this.”
“Yes, you can.” Allan sat up now. “Maybe you should surround yourself with a support group. Friends or even your family. It’s hard facing this alone.”
Another pause. “It seems I’ve always been alone. Sorry to have bothered you.”
Allan heard the dispirited undertone in Cathy’s voice, followed by muffled crying. Before he could reply, the connection suddenly broke with a click. The dead air became a dial tone in his ear.
It was a moment before he replaced the handset.
He shut out the light and rolled over on his side, gazing around the dark room. A breeze drifted through the open window, stirring the curtains. The coolness of it reached his face. The streetlights outside brought life to the branches of the elm tree on the front lawn, and the shadows they cast on the floor were long and fingerlike. Except for the soft patter of rain on the window, the bedroom was quiet.
Allan drew a deep breath and released it slowly, closed his eyes and opened them again. He turned over onto his back, his mind echoing Cathy Ambré’s desperate words.
“I don’t think I can make it through this.”
Allan shut his eyes again.
He told himself he couldn’t get involved. Despite that, he rose off the bed. Head down, hands on his hips, he paused at the closet door.
“It seems I’ve always been alone.”
Allan opened the door and pulled out a shirt and a pair of pants. After he dressed, he went downstairs. Then, deserting all of his better judgment, he grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter and walked out the door.
The rain had diminished to a fine mist. As he walked to his car, the squeak of his footsteps on the wet pavement seemed unusually loud.
The drive to Cathy Ambré’s apartment filled Allan with indecision. He just didn’t feel right about going there. What would he say? How could he justify showing up at a stranger’s home at such a late hour? Why was he really going in the first place? Genuine concern about Cathy’s well being? Or perhaps the ruse of a lonely man wanting to fill a void in his own life?
As he reached the apartment building, he considered turning his car around. Few tenants were still up. Only two windows flickered with light. Neither belonged to Cathy.
Slowly, he stepped from his car and went inside the building. Beyond the door by the stairwell came the hollow voices from a television. Allan imagined a couple cuddled on the sofa watching a late-night movie.
He went upstairs and knocked softly on Cathy’s door. Waited. No answer. He leaned his ear to the door, heard nothing stir inside. Perhaps she had taken his advice and gone to a friend’s house. It seemed too soon after their conversation for her to be in bed asleep.
He knocked again. Still no answer.
In a hushed voice, he called out, “Miss Ambré, it’s Detective Stanton. If you’re in there, will you open up, please?”
He waited a moment longer before he turned away and left. Back in his car, he looked up at Cathy’s dark window. Through its slick glass he could see drawn blinds.
Allan opened the glove box and took out a pen and notebook. Then he wrote:
Hi, Cathy,
I know the hour is late, but after your call, I got worried about you. I stopped by in case you were in need of a friend. Call me anytime. Hope you’re OK.
Detective Allan Stanton
He tore out the page, took it inside the building, and slid it under Cathy’s door. Back in his car, Allan switched on the ignition. The digital numbers that lit up in the dash read 1:17 a.m.
He let out a long sigh and wondered if he’d get back to sleep tonight.
