Текст книги "Murder on the Run"

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MURDER ON THE RUN A John Sanders Mystery Medora Sale

CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Dedication

To Harry

sine quo nihil

Chapter 1

The girl walked slowly along the street, her feet in heavy hiking boots dragging slightly with every step or two. Her hands were jammed in the pockets of her jeans; her chin was tucked into her sweater against the cold March wind. As she walked, she thought bitterly about the afternoon ahead of her. “It wasn’t me,” she muttered, kicking a small rock viciously out of her path. “I didn’t make the agency go bankrupt.” And just when she was getting somewhere. Everyone had been impressed with her artwork for the supermarket campaign, really impressed. Robert, of course, said that she should have been able to figure out by then that Smith and Hines was going under and that she should find another job before it was too late. So it was her fault, as usual. And it would be her fault if she didn’t get this job, too. She considered going back to the apartment and looking over her portfolio one more time. Maybe there were too many pen-and-ink pieces in it. She could put in some zippier stuff—one of those really jazzy, sexy, geometric oil pastels, perhaps. She’d go home right now. No. There were four hours to get through before the interview and she needed to keep moving. Her pace picked up slightly as she pondered the technical problem of assembling her portfolio for maximum effect. But what if she didn’t get this job, either? She couldn’t go on living off Robert and listening to him sneer about people who slept in every day. Okay, she said to herself, if I don’t get this one, I’ll just go out and get a job. Any job. Polish up the typing, or whatever, and wait until things pick up. The effect of making the decision was magical. She took a deep breath of relief, straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin out of her sweater, and tossed her brown hair out of her eyes as she strode along.

Directly ahead of her a pleasant-looking, obviously baffled young man was blocking her way. He was leaning on the open door of his vehicle, a battered road map clutched in his hand. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, smiling politely, “but would you happen to know where Hawthorne Crescent is? I don’t seem to be able to find it here.” She stopped and looked at him, then bent her head over the map, her eyes squinting against the bright sun. The blow to her temple was so swift and hard that she felt nothing at all.

Less than two hours later Detective Inspector John Sanders found himself standing uneasily in the corridors of Toronto General Hospital. He had sent his working mate, Sergeant Ed Dubinsky, to find out what was new and to collect whatever the hospital had of interest. Compared to most of the world, Sanders was a tall man, and even lounging against the wall, he dwarfed the nurses and orderlies who rushed back and forth in front of him. In the midst of his calculations on the distance to the nearest coffee machine, Dubinsky loomed into view, filling the hall with his bulk, looking impassive as always. “Well?” Sanders asked irritably.

“Not much,” said Dubinsky. “She’s alive, out of surgery, unconscious, and probably won’t make it.”

“Can they tell what happened to her?”

“Pretty much. She appears to have been raped. There is”—he pulled out his notebook—“extensive injury to her face and to the cranium. That’s the head bones,” he added, by way of explanation.

“Yeah,” said Sanders, “I know.” A kaleidoscope of bloodied faces, smashed in and unrecognizable, rushed up from his memory, and his stomach lurched.

“Oh. Anyway, they’ve sealed up the evidence and sent it over to Forensic.”

“Do we know who she is?”

“Not yet. Did you see her when she came in?” Sanders shook his head. “The bastard had sliced most of her clothes off; she had nothing on but hiking boots, half a sweater, and some scraps of jeans or something. She looked pretty terrible. Anyway, she didn’t have any identification on her.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Sanders said abruptly. “Where did they find her?”

“Rosedale Ravine, beside a path.”

“Dammit,” he said, rubbing his hand over his head. “I suppose we’d better have a look.”

Five minutes later they were pulling into the city works department road at the bottom of the ravine. “Christ,” he said to Dubinsky, as they walked from the car down the frozen footpath into the bitter wind, “who would feel like raping someone in this weather? Any why in hell do these women go for nature walks in the middle of deserted ravines? You’d think by now they’d have heard it was unhealthy.”

“We don’t know she was walking in the ravine. He could have done it somewhere else and dumped her here when he was through. The snow looks pretty undisturbed.” They stood in silence and watched a small crew of men combing the area.

“Worthless exercise,” said Sanders. “They won’t find anything. Let’s go. Nothing to do here until some results come in. And I need some coffee.”

“Who found her?” asked Sanders, back at his desk, coffee in hand.

“Some kid from Leaside. Just a minute, I’ve got it all here.” Dubinsky pulled out his notebook. “Yeah. Gavin Ellis, age nineteen, was running to work down this path about 10:30 this morning and noticed a dog growling and sniffing around something. Said he’d stopped to tie his shoe, otherwise he wouldn’t have seen her or paid any attention to the dog. Those ravines are full of dogs.”

“Did he do it?”

“Naw. Not unless he did it in one hell of a hurry. His mother said he left for work in his running clothes at 10:15. She noticed the time because he was already late. He isn’t even much use as a witness, because he was plugged into one of those bloody radios as he ran, so he wouldn’t have heard anything that wasn’t pretty loud. Anyway, he ran over to Mount Pleasant and flagged down a patrol car at 10:35.”

“Still, this Ellis may have interrupted him.” Sanders twirled his pen around a couple of times, then started sketching outlines of bodies on the scratch pad in front of him. He added bushes behind one of them and drew in a tortuous path. “The others were dead when we found them.”

“Pity he didn’t interrupt him a little earlier, then.”

Sanders was drawing in rocks and gravel on the path. “That bastard has been bloody lucky.” He put down his pen. “He jumps strong healthy females in broad daylight. Not one of them screams or resists, as far as we can tell. They’re all attacked in the open, and no one sees it. Jesus. What does he do? Hypnotize them? And where in hell were the patrols? Those ravines are supposed to be patrolled night and day.” Dubinsky didn’t bother to answer. Sanders dropped his head on his hands and stared at his sketch. “Well, let’s look at the lot of them, and maybe something will connect this time.” He pulled a thick file toward him and started to flip through it. “The first one—as far as we know, anyway. January 16th, a Monday. Serena Gundy Park. Barbara Elizabeth Lash, age twenty-seven, married, two kids, housewife. Left the kids at her mother’s and went for a walk, trying to lose some weight after the holidays. Two o’clock in the afternoon, approximately. She was wearing”—he ran his finger down the page rapidly.

“What does that matter?”

“Who knows? Maybe this guy only attacks women wearing hiking boots or something like that.” He skimmed through a couple of pages. “Nope. She was wearing wool slacks, a pea jacket, and snow-boots, according to her mother. Just a few scraps of cloth, according to the first man on the scene. Nobody heard anything, saw anything. Found by a couple of kids playing in the ravine after school. I wonder if they still play there,” he said, looking up. “Anyway, next victim. February 3rd, a Friday. High Park. Kirsten Johansson, age thirty-five, divorced, one child. A waitress. Lived with another woman who worked at the same restaurant. She had the afternoon off and went cross-country skiing. Roommate said she was probably wearing a heavy sweater, corduroy knickers, long red socks, and ski boots—as you might expect, since she was out skiing. Found by a man taking his dog for a run in the park at 5:00 p.m. Nobody heard or saw anything suspicious.” Dubinsky yawned and scratched his ear. They had gone through this material each time something new had come in, and nothing in this recital excited him.

“Sandra Diane Miller, age eighteen, student. February 28th, a Tuesday. The old Belt Line park, south of Eglinton Avenue. That’s hardly a remote area, you know. She was walking home from school. Lived at home with her family. Wearing gray tights, gray skirt, middy blouse—what’s that?”

“She was in her school uniform, I think.”

“Oh. Anyway, red ski jacket and snow-boots. See, Dubinsky, they were all wearing boots. All we have to do is round up all the boot fetishists in town and—”

Dubinsky pitched his coffee cup into the wastepaper basket. “It’s winter, John. Every woman in the city is wearing boots. My wife is wearing boots. So is yours.”

Sanders pushed the file aside and rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel godawful. I’m hung over; I got no sleep last night; I haven’t had any breakfast; and I spent the morning propping up a wall in a lousy hospital. The papers are screaming for someone’s head—mine seems the likeliest choice—and every female in the city is terrified and refusing to go outside without an escort. Except for the stupid ones who are getting themselves killed. Marie thinks we’re doing nothing about it because nobody gives a damn what happens to women anyway because we all work so late every night and don’t make enough money to buy a vacation retreat in Florida. Or something like that. I lost the drift of her argument around my fifth or sixth Scotch. Anyway,” he said, dragging himself back to the file on his desk, “Miller was found soon after by two boys also walking home from school; she was still alive, almost naked, sexually assaulted, with half her face a bloody pulp. But they didn’t see anyone else. She died on the way to the hospital. So, what does that tell us?”

“It tells us that he raped them and he beat them to a pulp and sometimes cut their throats if they didn’t seem dead enough. You left that out,” said Dubinsky impatiently. “And they’re all under five foot five, so we’re probably looking for someone who is at least five foot six and doesn’t like tackling someone his own size or bigger. And there weren’t any signs of a struggle at any of the scenes, so he probably attacked them somewhere else and dumped them. For chrissake, John, until something comes in from Forensic on this one, there isn’t anything in that file we haven’t gone over a hundred times. Let’s go get some lunch.”

Sanders stood up without comment and reached for his coat. His thin face was set in lines of black depression.

Amanda Griffiths stood on the bridge looking down over Mount Pleasant Road where it bisected the ravine. She had walked her friend Jennifer up to the bus stop. After the bus left with her safely on it, Amanda and Leslie Smith would walk little Heather home to the enormous house next door to Amanda’s. Really, thought Amanda, everyone was getting ridiculously paranoid. She was sick of moving around in a big group all the time—like a herd of sheep, she thought, or a school of green-uniformed fish. She liked that; she’d have to put it into her next letter to her mother. Her eye was caught by the two bright yellow police cruisers parked by the side of the path leading down into the ravine. This is too much, she thought. “Look, Jenn. The ravine’s full of cops. Johnson must have seen the rapist again and called them out.” Jennifer groaned dramatically. Every day they got endless lectures on the subject of traveling safely and avoiding suspicious-looking characters, but Jennifer’s tirade on the subject was cut short by the arrival of her bus.

Amanda waved goodbye to Jennifer as she got on, then, two minutes later, to Leslie as she ran up the stairs to her front door. She and Heather plodded silently the short distance to Forest Crescent; she conscientiously watched until Heather had safely slammed her front door shut behind her; then she turned and trudged up the walk to Aunt Kate’s. She hoped—without much expectation that her hopes would be realized—that Aunt Kate would be in. Somehow the house seemed very lonely on this bright and bitterly cold Thursday afternoon. She was supposed to be happy. It was the first day of the March break, and school had ended at noon. A whole afternoon with nothing to do, at least for Amanda. Leslie and Jennifer were going home to pack for Florida and the West Indies, respectively. It seemed to Amanda that she was the only girl in the entire school who wasn’t fleeing south for the holidays this afternoon. She and little Heather next door, whose mother was a real estate agent and couldn’t afford to miss the spring house-buying season. But who wants to spend the holidays amusing a ten-year-old? Even a nice one?

She walked slowly upstairs and through her bedroom to her study, dropped the knapsack full of books and notes on her desk, shrugged her coat off onto the floor, and headed back into the bedroom to get out of her uniform. She was shaken by a wave of homesickness. Tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes as she slowly began to crawl into her cords and warm sweater. It was very nice of Aunt Kate to let Amanda come and live with her while her parents went off to the States; it would have been silly to change school systems for just two years, and her aunt’s offer saved her from being enrolled as a boarder. After fifteen years of being an only child, she didn’t think that she would care for the communal existence, no matter how jolly it could be. But it was very unfair of her parents to be unavailable for the March break, or at least for the first week of it. Just as her spirits were sinking into the depths of self-pity, the front door crashed open.

“Amanda! Are you home? Let’s go out and have lunch!” Aunt Kate’s carrying tones galvanized her into movement. She grabbed her jacket and, taking them two at a time, leapt down the stairs.

“I don’t know, Aunt Kate,” said Amanda somberly as she spooned the last of her butterscotch sundae into her mouth. “It’s just so awful around the school right now that I get really depressed.”

“But I thought you were doing well there, with lots of friends and all that sort of thing. Aren’t you? Oh dear, I’m really not very good at dealing with the crises of adolescence, I’m afraid. You’ll have to forgive me. Put it down to lack of experience, and the general inelasticity of middle age.” Kate looked inquisitively at her pretty niece, and then put down her cup with a small spasm of guilt. She had been too preoccupied with her own life; she should have been keeping closer track of the poor girl. “Now, if you were a Malaysian girl faced with an unsuitable choice of husband, I’d know what to say—”

Amanda giggled. Aunt Kate’s scholarly view of life always cheered her up. She looked at every problem as though it had occurred on one of her archeological expeditions and took it seriously, unlike most adults who assumed that what was wrong with you was merely some temporary hormonal imbalance. “No, Aunt Kate, it’s not your fault at all. It’s just that the atmosphere has been so grim lately. Ever since that girl at AGS was attacked on her way home from school—right in the middle of Forest Hill—everyone is jumpy. If you’re under five foot four, like me, the whole world thinks you’ll never make it home from school alive. It’s depressing. And the new physics teacher is just awful. I had a whole hour of physics yesterday, and I don’t think I’ll be able to stand her until June. Physics used to be my best subject,” she said mournfully. “I don’t see why Mrs. Resnick had to pick this year to have a baby. Conway is so mean, and yells all the time. She spends more time having fits than she does teaching.”

“She’s Mrs. Conway, isn’t she?”

“Mmm,” said Amanda.

“She looked terribly familiar when I saw her at Parents’ Night. I’m sure I’ve met her before. Didn’t your dad have a Conway working for him on his last project?”

Amanda shook her head. “Dad has so many graduate students—I never knew any of their names except for the ones who used to babysit me when I was little.”

“I’m sure I ran into her at one or two of those parties your dad gave for his crew. I remember that awful voice—whiny and aggrieved.”

“That’s her.” Amanda pushed her dish aside. “I must have been hungry. I feel better now. And I like the school, really I do. It’s a lot better than my old school out in Mississauga, especially since it’s so close to downtown. Maybe I’ll go shopping now—if you think I can walk down Yonge Street by myself.”

Kate grinned at the challenge, unfolding her almost six-foot frame out of the booth. “I expect so. But why don’t you walk over to the university about 4:30 or so and meet me in my office. We can celebrate the end of school with an early movie and then dinner. You’re making me nervous now. I don’t think you should be walking through Rosedale by yourself going home.”

“Oh, Aunt Kate. Not you, too.” And Amanda shrugged into her jacket, flipping her brown hair over the collar with a grimace at her aunt.

Sanders sat at his desk and drew little stick figures on a pad of paper. It was almost time to go home from a day that he might as well not have shown up for. He had arrived late and had had to chase after Dubinsky, catching up with him at the scene long after most of the routine work had been parceled out and half completed. Dubinsky had said nothing—then—but some day it would come out in little jibes and digs at his not-so-superior superior officer. And now Sanders should be running around, trying to find out the victim’s identity, what the preliminary findings had been, whether this was the work of the same man, and just what they had to go on from here. Instead he was sitting at his desk waiting for the hours to tick by, pushing pieces of paper around and pretending to be writing reports. Not that he wanted to go home. The last thing he wanted to do was to face Marie. Maybe he’d switch around and work Friday, Saturday and Sunday. He looked up at the faint sound of Dubinsky’s cat-like tread. His partner raised one enormous hand in greeting and dropped a sheaf of papers on Sanders’ desk.

“Not much so far. Did you get the note from upstairs?” Sanders shook his head. “I didn’t think so. Anyway, they want a mobile unit set up down there and the adjacent neighbourhoods combed for anyone who might know anything. Now.”

“For chrissake! Do they realize how many ‘adjacent neighbourhoods’ there are to that ravine? How many men are they giving us to do this? One?”

“As many as we like, they say. We’re supposed to look as though we’re doing something useful to calm down the citizens. Even if the activity itself doesn’t do much good.” Dubinsky shrugged and pulled out his notebook. “Well, this is what we’ve got. Number one: the lab found some gold-coloured fiber—a synthetic of some sort—imbedded in the girl’s sweater. They’ll give us more later, but it looks like carpeting, they think.”

“Sure. And when we find out who she is, it’ll turn out she had a gold rug and liked lying on the floor to watch TV. Any word on her identity?”

“Not yet. We might get something after the evening news goes on.”

“There’s not much more we can do then. You go on home. I’ll see about setting up that mobile unit. I’ll look after it this weekend. It’s time I got off my ass and started working.” As Dubinsky picked up his coat, Sanders was reaching for the phone, his face blank and impassive.

It was ten o’clock on Friday morning before Dubinsky walked into the crowded, chaotic office and pulled out his chair at the pair of facing desks that he shared with Sanders. As far as he could tell, Sanders hadn’t moved since the previous night. “You been home yet?” he asked casually.

“You’re damn right I’ve been home,” Sanders replied. “Have you ever considered how much time we waste driving home at night? And coming back in the morning? Do you ever think how nice it would be just not going home?”

Dubinsky gave him a guarded look. “No—no, I never do.”

“I guess you wouldn’t,” he said. Why would he? thought Sanders. He isn’t married to a painted doll who trapped him with honeyed, reluctant submission and then turned into a screaming shrew who paid out her favours one by one in return for concessions, until they didn’t seem worth bargaining for any more. Sally was fierce, hard-working, and conscientious; she led Dubinsky a merry chase sometimes, but she was a real person. “You know, there’s an apartment on a sublet ten blocks from here . . . but what the hell,” Sanders said, clearing his mind for the time being. “The unit is ready to go. I have two shifts of four guys each. Where in hell have you been?”

“I just came back from interviewing a Robert Donaldson who works for an ad agency—he’s an artist of some sort, I guess. His girlfriend—live-in type—called him yesterday morning at work to say that she had a job interview at two and was going to pass the time until then taking a nice long walk. When she wasn’t home by six, he guessed that she’d bombed it and hadn’t felt like coming home right then. That’s happened before, he said. But she’s never stayed out all night before, and after calling all her friends he called us. Anyway, he identified her—sort of. The hair and the body type are right. He’s kind of shaken. We just got back from the hospital.”

“Could he have done it?”

“Maybe. He said he was at work all day, putting together a presentation. Easily checked. Do you want me to look into it?”

“Since you’re going to be sitting around here doing nothing, sure. By the way, who was she?”

Dubinsky looked down at his notebook. “Mary Ellen Parsons, age twenty-three, commercial artist, currently unemployed. And the boyfriend’s apartment has that smooth gray carpeting you get in offices. I checked.”

By Saturday at noon Sanders knocked on the twenty-fourth door of an imposing street close to the ravine. Beside him stood a taciturn young constable, hastily recruited from other duties to make up the special force demanded by the public, the papers, and therefore, the politicians. They had started Friday afternoon, and so far, the results had been less than worthwhile. Each fruitless hour spent reminded Sanders of the equally fruitless efforts made on each, previous occasion, and only served to depress him further. Sanders knocked again. Finally he heard slow footsteps, and the door was partially opened, revealing a bright-eyed elderly lady and a large and sober-looking black Labrador retriever.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Sanders, for the twenty-fourth time that day. “We are police officers”—he held out his identification, which she looked at long and carefully before raising her suspicious eyes. “We are investigating an attack on a young woman just a few blocks away from here, and we would like to know if you saw or heard anything at all unusual or suspicious-looking on Thursday—this last Thursday, the eighth.”

“Thursday, eh? Well, I don’t know if it was on Thursday, but I saw something last week that disturbed me a great deal.” Sanders looked up sharply at that. “I took Georgia here out for her walk at 6:00 a.m., the way I always do if I’m awake—and I usually am—and that’s when I saw it.”

“What did you see, ma’am?”

“One of those girls who deliver the papers around here in the morning, it was. It’s a terrible. thing, you know. It’s dark out when they take those papers around, except during the summer. Can’t you do something to stop them from hiring girls to do that?”

“I’m afraid we can’t, ma’am,” said Sanders, with barely concealed impatience. “If you let boys do it, you have to let girls do it, too. You know, equality.”

“Piffle,” said the old lady. “Anyway, as Georgia and I were coming along South Drive, there was one of those vans following the girl delivering the papers, moving very slowly just behind her. I tell you I was very worried.”

“It was probably the manager for the district, ma’am—they often drive around to make sure everything is all right.”

“No, it wasn’t, young man. Because Georgia and I went right over and looked in the window at him, and stared at his license plate as well, and he speeded up and drove away. I tell you, he was one of those rapists, and you people should do something about him.”

Sanders smiled, weary of the endless politeness this sort of duty required. That was what happened—nobody had anything useful to say, but every crank wanted to tell him what was wrong with the city, the police, the neighbourhood. “Well, the young woman who was injured wasn’t delivering papers, ma’am. She was probably attacked later in the morning as well. But I’ll pass your comment along to the officers who patrol this area at that time in the morning. Thank you for your help.” He kept smiling until the door closed in his face, and he turned away. He wondered if “neighbourhoods adjacent to the ravine” could be construed as a description of Eleanor’s house. It did back onto a ravine, although it wasn’t quite the same one. Knocking on Eleanor’s door was a tempting thought. Except that he’d still have this sour-faced kid stumping along behind him. It wasn’t Sanders’ fault that the kid’s weekend leave had been canceled and his love-life thrown for a loop. That’ll teach him, he thought vindictively.

Five days later Sanders was sitting in the mobile unit, cursing its limited space and general lack of creature comforts. There wasn’t even a bloody restaurant where you could get a lousy cup of coffee closer than fifteen minutes’ brisk walk away. And what did they have? Nothing. Zero. Zilch. At least fifty suspicious-looking characters had been reported, most of them quiet, albeit odd-looking, neighbours, a few of them aged rummies who had staggered in from busier streets and neighbourhoods, or up from the haven of the ravine where they spent their nights. None of them seemed likely to have had the strength or the desire to strip, rape, beat, and slice up a girl, even a smallish one. He had painstakingly followed up on most of the leads, only to end up back at nothing. And meanwhile the female population of the city was getting edgier and edgier.

The medical report lay in front of him. Contrary to expectation, she was still alive, but only just. There had been traces of recent intercourse, which along with the patterns of bruising on her body were consistent with rape by someone with blood type O positive. Her skull had been battered by a rounded object, possibly about twenty centimeters in diameter. There was probably massive brain damage. Other than that, she had been a vigorous and healthy woman, which probably accounted for the fact that she was still alive. That, and an unusually sturdy bone structure in her head. She was injured shortly before being brought into the hospital, in the opinion of the first people who had seen her. That would seem to let out the boyfriend, thought Sanders, who was at work then. Besides, the grisly details were too much like those in the earlier deaths to make him a serious contender.

The single ray of hope lay in those gold synthetic fibers imbedded in the remains of her sweater. So far Forensic had been able to establish that it was carpeting, and of a type of fiber patented by a U.S. company and made in limited quantities under license in Canada. Some patient telephoning had found them three manufacturers that used that particular fiber—it was pricy for a synthetic and most of the domestic market for carpet that expensive was for pure wool. Sanders had discovered that commercial clients, however, liked its durable properties and its imperviousness to damage from large rug-cleaning machines, and so it found its way into expensive office broadloom. Only one manufacturer was willing to admit to producing that shade of gold, and Dubinsky, working in the comfort of their own office, with their own telephone and coffee supply, was getting lists of people to whom it had been supplied. Impatient for an answer, Sanders called for the third time that morning.

“For chrissake, Dubinsky, what in hell is going on down there? Haven’t you got anything yet?”

“Hold on,” said Dubinsky, muttering as he reached for some papers on his desk. “It’s almost impossible to get hold of anyone in those bloody offices who knows anything until ten o’clock, and it took them forever to find who had the information, but here it is. All the gold was ordered by an interior designer, who says that he got it for a small mixed-use building on Davenport Road—an antique dealer on the ground floor, and some architects on the upper floors, plus, I think, an importing company. He’ll give us the names of all the people as soon as he looks them up. There was some yardage left over, which he had been planning to put in another smaller office he was doing, but the client decided he didn’t like it once he saw the colour, so the manufacturer jobbed it off to one of the cut-rate retailers on Finch—Family Carpet, I think. They sell a lot of rugs. The chances that they’ll know who bought this piece are pretty small, but I’ll go out there and see what can be done.”

“Great,” said Sanders. “Either she was raped in the middle of the day in an office building on Davenport and carried off, no doubt under the amazed eyes of various passersby, to some vehicle and dumped in the ravine, or she was raped in the apartment of some thrifty nut who buys his rugs at a cut-rate outlet, or God knows what. Well, go out to the carpet place, and good luck.” He hung up the receiver and stared around him at the cramped walls. One more day of this and they’d be able to dismantle it, and return, empty-handed, to the Dundas Street station house. Still, he thought, maybe we should send someone to go over those offices inch by inch, just in case.