When Hell Freezes Over Read online

  Looking back on it now, Shannon realized how thoroughly she’d been seduced. Rob had a rather overwhelming personality and was very handsome, in a roguish sort of way. At thirty, he was already a high flying veteran on the Toronto police force and possessed that presence that comes with being a cop.

  The melt-in-your-mouth summer nights, the laughter and camaraderie, Rob always hovering close, making sure her glass was full, had completed the job on a relatively unworldly twenty-five-yearold. That, and a very deaf grandmother who went to bed at nine p.m.

  The last night of their trip they’d been sitting on the front stoop talking when Rob had leaned over and kissed her cheek, then her lips. It had been so soft and gentle, Shannon had immediately responded. Her weak spot had already been sussed out somehow, because if Rob had grabbed, she would have bolted. Indoors, as the kissing continued in the doorway to his room, she had let him touch her, and she was soon his. With her head spinning from a bit too much wine and young lust, she’d wound up in his bed, making love for only the second time in her life.

  They’d only had unprotected sex that once, but that was all it had taken. Six weeks later, Shannon had received the bad news that she was pregnant. Rob had “done right” by her, and they’d married. At the time, she felt she’d married the love of her life.

  She purposely walked down the opposite side of the street from her target address, so she could get a wide angle view of the building. Situated near a corner, the brick building was four stories, taller than the neighbourhood standard of three. Other than that, it looked pretty undistinguished, a good place to “blend in”. She wondered if any of the windows facing her belonged to apartment seven.

  She crossed the street, dodging a taxi that had run the light at the corner, getting sprayed with slush in the process.

  The spartan foyer needed of a good coat of paint, and the floor had several tiles missing. She could see through the glass of the inner door that the first floor hallway wasn’t much better kept. Only the cocoa husk mat at her feet looked new. The intercom was built into a dented row of steel mailboxes on the right side. Sure enough, the listing for number seven was G. Fleury.

  Shannon buzzed, but not surprisingly, didn’t get an answer. With a shrug, she pressed the button next to the listing for Concierge.

  After cooling her jets for a minute or two, she was about to press again when an old man appeared at the far end of the hallway. She tried hard to wait patiently while he shuffled down the length of it.

  At 5'9", Shannon was tall and positively towered over the little man who had answered her summons. He might have been 5'1".

  Looking to be around seventy, he had started out stocky, but that had degenerated into fat. He also needed a shave and reeked of tobacco. After a closer whiff, Shannon also realized that a shower was long overdue. Equally unappealing were his dirty, grey track pants, stained white T -shirt and a ratty flannel bathrobe that should have been thrown in the trash years ago.

  He squinted up at her through a haze of smoke. “Oui?”

  Realizing that discretion was the better part of valour in this case, she tried something in her high school French. “Je ne peux pas parler français très bien.” She flashed him an apologetic smile “Vous parlez anglais?”

  Le petit concierge puffed twice on his cigarette and nodded once.

  Shannon tried not to cough. “I was buzzing someone who told me they’d be at home today. There was no answer, and I wasn’t sure if the intercom worked, so I tried you.”

  “Which apartment?” His English was French Canadian, thick and difficult to follow.

  “Seven,” she answered. The concierge stopped puffing, looking her over from head to toes.

  “You are to meet with the woman in number seven?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is very interesting.”

  Taking a pack of Gauloises from a pocket of his robe, he lit a new cigarette from the stub of his current one, which he threw on the floor, grinding it out with a slippered foot. A few more puffs. “So you know Mademoiselle Fleury?”

  She weighed possible answers carefully. If this vile-looking little man liked the Fleury girl, he would probably lie to protect her. The way he’d given Shannon the once-over told her he probably enjoyed ogling les jeunes filles, so she decided to try charming and telling the truth. Flashing her widest smile, she relaxed her body a bit, leaning in conspiratorially. “We haven’t met, but she was in Toronto recently, and I wanted to speak to her about something that happened there.”

  “Toronto? That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That girl is always off to someplace, Europe, the States, always someplace new with her.”

  “What does she do for a living?”

  “You la police?”

  Shannon thought before answering, then reached into her purse, pulling out a business card. “I’m a private investigator.” Shifting gears and trying to sound more like a cop, she said, “I’m trying to track down the Fleury girl. She may be in some trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  She couldn’t decide if the little concierge looked wary or interested. Either way, she didn’t want to scare him off. “Some people were looking for her in Toronto. They bothered a friend of mine there, thinking he might know where she is.”

  The little man nodded sagely.“You are not the first to ask questions about her, you know.”

  “Who else has been looking for her? A cop?”

  The old man snorted. “Ben non! Two big men, English—from England, you understand. They came yesterday,” he snorted indignantly, “and said to me they were lawyers and had news of a possible inheritance. Tabernac! What did they take me for? Un idiot?”

  Now this was interesting! “So what did you tell them?”

  “I told them nothing! I said she wasn’t here, which is the truth. I said she may lose her apartment because she has not paid her rent for two months, and that is all I said to them!”

  “They asked for nothing else?”

  “Of course they did! I said I was busy. They offered me money to tell them if the Fleury girl returns. ‘It is very urgent that we speak to her.’”

  “And how are you supposed to contact these men?”

  “I do not know. I sent them away without asking!”

  Shannon, observing the concierge closely, noticed his eyes flicker sideways and a slight shift in his weight. He’s lying, she thought.

  “You said that she has not paid her rent recently.”

  “Two months! She is fortunate I am so understanding. When I saw her in the hall three days ago, she promised that she would drop off a cheque before she went out for the evening! Pah!” The little man punctuated his disgust by spitting on the floor.

  “What does the Fleury girl do for a living?” she repeated.

  “She told me she is a...how do you say it?...stewardess, but I’ve never seen no uniform.”

  “And three days ago was the last time you saw her?”

  The concierge could only nod his answer as he started coughing. “You must excuse me, madame. I am just getting over la grippe, and it is not very warm in our foyer.”

  The pair was moving into the lobby as a man exited the elevator, mumbling a bonjour as he squeezed past in the narrow hallway. They both turned to watch him cross the street.

  She really wanted to get into the girl’s apartment and saw an easy way she might accomplish it. So she opened her ski jacket and immediately felt (rather than saw) her companion’s eyes checking out her chest. Going shamelessly with the flow, she started to remove her jacket and dropped it “accidentally” behind her. Smoothly turning away, she bent over at the waist to pick it up, giving him a good view of her jean-covered butt. Hope this does the trick, she said to herself as she straightened and turned back.

  The dirty old man was practically salivating. “Is there anything else I can do for madame this morning?”

  She feigned indecisiveness. “Well.
.. there is one thing. Would it be possible to see apartment seven? I would, of course, pay you for your trouble. No, no. That is too much to ask. Please forgive me!”

  A big grin split the man’s face. “No. It would be très possible. And you say you have never met Mademoiselle Fleury?”

  “No,” she answered, her pulse quickening. “I was told about her and offered to speak to her, since I was going to be in Montreal.”

  The old man’s grin widened. “Then it is no problem! I told her that if she did not pay the rent, I would be forced to start eviction proceedings against her. You will be someone who is looking at the apartment in the hope of being able to rent it. Non?”

  She reached out and touched the man’s arm in a gesture of concern. “I would not want to get you in any trouble!”

  “I assure you, madame, I can do what I wish in this building.” He motioned across from the elevator. “The elevator is very slow. It would be best if we took the stairs.”

  Yeah, right! she thought as she started up the stairs in front of him. He just wants another butt shot.

  He made it up the stairs surprisingly quickly, considering the way he’d puffed down the hallway earlier. Perhaps it had something to do with the speed at which Shannon took the stairs.

  The old man sorted through a ring of keys, squinting at each as he held it up to the light. About five from the end, he found it, then opened the door to number seven with a flourish. “Voilà!”

  She hadn’t known what to expect, but the apartment came as a shock. Considering the rundown nature of the building, coupled with the fact that the old man had told her that the girl was away more than at home, the furnishings were opulent. Obviously, this mysterious girl had exquisite taste along with quite a lot of disposable income.

  The little concierge whistled. “Tabernac...”

  Shannon knew she had little time and wanted to see as much as possible. Knowing she couldn’t do a real search with company present, she made the best use of her time by just wandering through the ooms as if she were enjoying all the fine furniture, carpets and objets d’art. What she was actually doing was trying to get some sort of a lead as to where the girl might be, or at the very least clues as to who this mysterious girl was.

  On a tall dresser in the bedroom were several photos, the only ones she’d seen in the apartment. Five were of the girl at various stages of her life, bare-assed at two or three opening a screen door, one at about eight or nine with a pretty white dress and a bouquet of flowers, probably a confirmation photo, and two of her as a teenager, gawky and still with baby fat, but becoming a fairly attractive woman. The last and largest photo had been taken more recently, and was by far the most interesting because it showed another person, male, possibly late twenties, handsome, swarthy complexion, very powerfully built. The girl and this male had their heads together. He was sitting, she was bending over and their brilliant smiles filled the frame. The bit of background led Shannon to believe the photo had been taken at a beach.

  She turned to the concierge, aware that he’d been staring at her. “Do you know who this person is?” she asked, indicating the photo.

  He shuffled forward, craning his neck. “Oui. I have seen him a few times.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  “I was taking the garbage to the curb, and Mademoiselle Fleury and this gentleman they arrived in a taxi and went into the building. Next morning, I was taking the garbage cans back in, and he stepped out of the elevator.”

  “So you think he stayed the night with her?”

  The little man gave a generous Gallic shrug.

  “When was this?” she asked.

  “Last September, maybe early October.”

  “Did you hear him speak?”

  “Oui. He asked me where he could get a taxi.”

  “Was he from Montreal?”

  The concierge shook his head. “The States. He spoke like someone you hear on that crime show from New York, you know, The Sopranos.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Oui. It was strange, though...”

  “What?”

  “Another time, I saw them at a bar on Rue St. Denis. It was a fineevening, and they were sitting outside. I stopped by to say hello, and he and Mademoiselle Fleury were speaking Italian. He did not look happy at my interruption. She sounded as if she had been born in Roma. I visited Italy once in my youth, you know.”

  Interesting. “I didn’t know she spoke Italian.”

  “Oh, yes. After that I tried out some of what I remembered on her, and she would laugh. She said she had attended university in Milan. Something to do with economics, I think. Anyway, her Italian is molto bene. I also heard her speaking German into her cell phone once. Ça, c’t’une fille brillante, Mademoiselle Fleury!”

  Fluent in at least four languages? She certainly did sound brilliant. “Anything else you can tell me?”

  The little man frowned as he searched his memory. “The man from New York called her Julie.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oui! I heard it quite as clearly as I am hearing your voice. Twice he said it.”

  Shannon kept her face passive, but inside she was smiling broadly. Gotcha! she thought triumphantly. The girl’s made her first mistake. A question flashed across Shannon’s mind, one she should have asked a lot sooner. “But she’s from Quebec?”

  “Décidément.”

  ***

  Shannon spent the rest of the afternoon touring the nearby night spots on St. Denis where a young woman might go for an evening of fun. Besides a few hits of recognition as she showed the girl’s photo around, the detective learned only a little more. The Fleury girl occasionally had male companions with her, but usually came in alone. No names, no remembered conversations. One night she’d entered one place by herself but left late with an American tourist who’d been hitting on her all evening. No one had ever heard her speak anything but French—except to the American.

  On the drive back to the airport, Shannon’s bad mood morning grew worse.The trip had certainly not been a waste, but what now faced her was something she’d been dreading would be the next of the step in this investigation: a trip to New York.

  It wasn’t the best time for her to be gone overnight, not after the battle she’d had with Rachel. That would be better dealt with right away instead of being left to fester. Shannon had no idea what she was going to say to her daughter, especially if Rachel kept pushing her, as she’d been doing lately.

  Rachel was a smart girl and had seen something that her mother hadn’t even been able to admit to herself. If she were honest, it couldn’t be denied. Michael Quinn did attract her, and it wasn’t the remainder of a long-ago teenage crush. That puzzled her. She’d felt so certain that she’d hardened herself to anything like that. After the disaster of her marriage, Shannon had sworn she would never allow herself to have those feelings again. It wasn’t realistic, of course, considering that she was an attractive forty-one-year-old with a healthy sex drive, but she’d always imagined herself feeling something like this in the far-distant future, when years had healed the wounds to her heart suffered at the hands of the man she had loved so completely.

  As she spoke on the phone to her mother, giving her the bad news about the extended trip, a vision of Big Rob floated in front of her eyes, as it had on and off all day. The next call she’d be making would be to him, since Rob was the only “connected” person she knew in the Big Apple. In the past, she’d always relied on him to use his connections when one of their cases had taken them down that way.

  One time she hadn’t. And now she had to go to him for help.

  Shannon again stared sourly at the seat back in front of her on the one-hour flight to New York. Now it wasn’t just her kids and ex-husband that were on her mind. What was bothering her was a new and more disturbing problem.

  Fourteen

  My recurring nightmare doing a crash and burn gave me a terrific lift. Maybe, just maybe, this was
a day where things would actually go my way. The blasted dream had never imploded like that before.

  Given my state of mind, it wasn’t hard to convince myself that my fears of the night, jumping at every sound I’d heard, had merely been the product of an overheated imagination. Things always seem worse in the dead of the night, don’t they?

  After a leisurely shower, followed by breakfast at the Mars diner on College Street, I zipped along some backstreets, grabbed the Don Valley Parkway off the Bayview Extension, and got to the warehouse in thirty-five minutes flat, no traffic tie-ups. Amazing! I could count on the fingers of one hand the times that had happened.

  Surely, I had the world by the tail.

  Hamed was still on loan to the movie shoot, Kevin was out with the van, picking up equipment at a studio, which left Johnny and me to assemble the gear needed for two contracts going out later that day. We were both sweating heavily by the time we finished, but we could look with satisfaction at two organized lines of amps, drums, keyboards and their attendant hardware in the middle of the warehouse floor, ready to be whisked into the trucks when they arrived. One of the contracts had even been prepaid.

  Life could still have its good moments.

  I had just sat down on a flight case with a cold beer out of the refrigerator when the phone rang. Johnny, keen as mustard, jumped for it before I could move a muscle.

  “Quinn Musical Equipment... Yes, he is... Sure. I can do that. Whom shall I say is calling?... Really? Wow! I’m sure he’d like to speak with you. I’ll get him.” Johnny stuck his head out of the little entrance room. “Hey, boss. It’s Rolly Simpson on the phone! Do you want to take the call here or in your office?”