Road Warrior, page 17
He nodded sympathetically. “I know, Ab. Must be tough for such a woman of action. But can you imagine how Maria would be coping without you, Anita, and your mom helping out? Dave’s been pretty helpful too, though he must hate having to be the bearer of bad news all the time.”
“Yep, I feel like an emotional bouncing ball. For him, it must be even more challenging to deal with all the emotions that go along with this kind of situation. Maybe it’s just a reflection of my current unusual lack of self-confidence, but I can’t help wondering if he’s just keeping tabs on me and the shop—maybe waiting for Paul to show up or something.”
“Feeling human, are you, girl?”
“Is that what it is? It sucks. I want to be superwoman and solve everything.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Something will break soon, I hope.” Then he smiled as he looked down at my cup and raised his eyebrows.
“That went down fast! One less cup for you to return, I guess. Hand it over.”
“Huh,” I said, looking at the empty cup in my hand. “Wow, that tells you how preoccupied I am. Well, thanks for the pep talk, my friend. I hope the caffeine helps me refocus on the fish, otherwise we’re all in trouble.” I looked at the clock above his head. “Time’s up, gotta go—Snappy’s calling. I’ll be back for a refill later.”
He saluted me and called out, “Don’t forget to send Junior with the cups. That’ll be a change; he’s usually in them.”
I laughed on my way up the street at Mario’s lame joke about Junior. Come to think of it, he did seem to be sober today. As I turned the corner onto Kensington Avenue and headed north, I could see that customers were milling around the entrance to Neptune’s Nook again. Family drama, trouble, and curiosity seem to be good for business, I thought, as I walked up to the crowd.
Frank’s reappearance had already been in the news, and the media coverage was bound to ramp up again. These folks were probably looking for an excuse to find out what was going on. Oh well, it’s good for Maria’s pocketbook, I mused as I unlocked the door, and let the crowd in. I then donned my apron, washed my hands elaborately, and turned to the restless crowd. “Okay, who’s first?” I called out, and then we got down to business.
The afternoon passed quickly, and, to my satisfaction, I even had to go into the freezer to pull out some of the fish I had put aside a few days earlier. Maria would be pleased that we had such good sales for a Tuesday. Since I’d done so well so rapidly, I decided to shut down early, around four p.m. As I was closing up, Junior sauntered into the store. I guess he’d decided that part of his job was making sure customers didn’t linger. I had no complaints about that.
“Thanks Junior, you’re doing a great job! It’s too bad we haven’t found out anything about Paul, but I appreciate you trying. You’re a huge help! I can’t really pay you, but you can take the remaining buns there.” I pointed at the basket on the shelf. “Do you want me to make you a sandwich with some of the remaining shrimp? They’re precooked.”
His eyes lit up. “Sure, that’d be cool.”
Then I remembered Mario’s request for his glasses.
“Hey, friend, how about I gather up Mario’s glasses and you can take them over while I prepare your food and clean up? It wouldn’t hurt either of us to get in Mario’s good graces either.”
“Sure, no problem,” he said in his fake nonchalant way.
Junior was whistling when he returned, carrying two mugs of coffee from Overdrive. He seemed so happy to be useful that I felt like I was watching a redemption film—let’s call it “The Resurrection of Junior Smith.”
“Thanks, Abby,” he said as I handed him his care package of shrimp sandwiches and a box of crackers. “Here,” he said, handing me one of the coffees as he took a swig of his. “Mario gave us each one. He said to tell you that your credit is good again, now that the glasses are back.”
“That’s good news,” I replied as I gave the counters a last wipe. “There—now all I’ve got left to do is wash the floor,” I said, “and that will wait until tomorrow. I have a date before I go to the community centre to wrench with the kids. So,” I continued as I walked him to the door and took his now empty glass off his hands, “I’ve got to go get cleaned up at least a little. Thanks again, bud. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Glad to be of help,” he said, surprising me by making a genuine, unaffected comment. That reminded me to tell him my plan.
“Listen, you have potential, Junior. I’d like to help you once this is all over. Would you be interested in working, maybe for Maria? Or we could look into other possibilities…?”
“Would I ever,” he smiled. “My mom got laid off recently. It would be good if I could help her and my little brothers. This thing with Thomas got me thinking.”
So that was what had caused the change. Well, whatever it takes, I thought. “That’s too bad about your mom,” I said kindly and then added, “okay then, we’ll talk about it soon. Bye for now.” I locked the door and turned the open sign to closed.
CHAPTER 24
EARLIER IN THE DAY, DAVE HAD TEXTED that he’d like to grab a quick bite with me before I went to wrench at the community centre. “That way I can catch you up on the investigation,” he’d typed.
In my return text, I’d said that I’d be happy to meet him, as he suggested, at five-fifteen at the Gatto Nero, in Little Italy. They make great thin crust pizzas and the requisite high quality Italian coffee. That he suggested that great place meant he was finding his way around town pretty quickly. We agreed that if I was late, he should just go ahead and order for both of us since I didn’t have much time before I had to go start my volunteer shift. That probably suited his need to be in charge.
I had a thought: maybe that’s all it was—Dave didn’t like to be caught flatfooted with something he didn’t expect or had forgotten. Maybe that’s when he bristled. He didn’t balk when I chose the route on our bike ride or when I ordered at Pho Hung. Well, I could certainly empathize with that—being caught off guard riled me up too. Perhaps it had something to do with feeling like I had no control of a situation. That’s partly what was pissing me off about Thomas’s disappearance. I felt like I wasn’t able to make something happen. All I was doing to be helpful was hawking fish. Maybe Dave was just too much like me, I brooded. Anyway, even though I wasn’t sure if the date was for business or pleasure, I was thrilled that he’d asked me out, and I had to get ready.
Hence the desire to clean up a bit. I washed quickly and brushed my hair. Obviously, I wasn’t going to dress up, given my inability to stay clean in a work environment, and it was beginning to be difficult to find even clean smelling clothes. Wondering, idly, if I could convince Junior to do my laundry, I picked out some multicoloured leggings, black bike shorts, a tight bike shirt, a sweatshirt, and a bike jacket for the cold. I decided to take my Cervélo to show to Alex later, so I unhooked it from the ceiling and bumped it down the stairs.
A quick check in my office revealed that there were no new messages on either phone, so I decided to text Anita and ask her to call me on my cell if anything new developed. I told her I’d leave it on even when I was at the community centre. It was still crowded in the Market, so I took my bike out the back way and rode down the lane to Spadina Avenue.
The vacuum created by my rapid ride to Little Italy sucked the rest of the fish shop out of my pores, and I arrived at the Gatto Nero feeling refreshed. I locked my bike inside the patio fence, next to Dave’s so we could watch them canoodle while we dined. In the summer or on a warm spring day it would be a no-no to park them there, but no one was going to argue with a police officer on this almost-winter night, I reasoned, as I walked into the restaurant.
Carmine, the owner, was such a charming and friendly man. He always greeted the people he knew with a handshake or the lovely European tradition of the two-cheek kiss. That day was no exception. He gave me a hearty hello and, winking, asked if the handsome cyclist seated at the window was my friend. When I confirmed that was the case, he simply smiled and said, “Arabella told me you were out West. I guess you couldn’t stay away from the city, eh? And, already another nice man—you are a very busy woman, Miss Abby.”
I shrugged. “You know, Carmine, it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.”
“Or an old Gatto.” He gestured to the renovations that had occurred during my absence. “What do you think?” he asked.
I looked around. The place was the same but a little glossier than before. “It looks like a modern Italian restaurant, rather than an old world one.”
“Yes, I agree; it’s more for the young cat.” He gestured at his forty-year-old son at the counter. “He likes it a lot, thinks it will bring in the younger crowd. Me? I don’t know. Anyway,” he said, “this old cat’s going home soon. I’ll leave it to you young ones.” He walked me to our table and shook hands with Dave. “Well, have a nice dinner, you two.”
“Thanks, Carmine.” I gave him a goodbye hug and whispered in his ear. “I still like this old cat’s style.” This made him blush a little and give me a cat-who-lapped-the-milk smile. I was rather fond of the old gentleman.
“Nice guy,” Dave said as I sat down. True to his word, he had everything ready: a steaming cappuccino and sparkling water were on the table. I’d told him to keep the drinks to coffee and water so I could keep my head straight when working on bikes—I was going to be super caffeinated for the community centre gig.
“Yes, he’s a classy old gent,” I agreed as the waitress delivered two beautiful, shiny pizzas for us to share. I approved of Dave’s choices—one was a funghi, with wild mushrooms and a white garlic sauce, and the other was the more standard Margherita with tomato sauce, buffalo cheese, and fresh basil.
“Enjoy,” she said before she walked away.
“You get around,” Dave said as we both reached for a slice of pizza.
“Well, like you, I love good food,” I mumbled with my mouth semi-full. “Mmm, this is delicious. It helps that we lived not too far from here in Little Portugal during my childhood so I know lots of these downtown neighbourhoods. And,” I added as I picked up my coffee cup and gestured to it, “When you’re a Toronto coffee aficionado, you get around anyway.” I drank some of my brew and went on.
“The Gatto was one of the first to make a good cappuccino in this neighbourhood. Back in the day, it was a smaller place up the road. Although Little Italy is changing to a more mixed area, and there is the inevitable late-night club scene developing, I still love the neighbourhood. And I guess, like Kensington Market, these areas have to morph as time goes by in order to survive. The trick is to keep out the big box and corporate stores and retain the character of the neighbourhood. They’re struggling with that in Kensington, for sure. Being so close to downtown makes it very attractive to developers. It’s a good thing that much of the Market has been designated a heritage site.”
“I’ll have to keep you around,” Dave said as we continued to chow down on the delicious food. “You are a veritable fount of information and have good connections with the locals.”
“Oh yes, that’s me—Abby the tour guide, at your service.” I laughed. “I could start a whole new trend. See how the other half live, follow the courier, and play hide and seek with developers. Sounds like fun.”
He laughed while I changed the subject.
“So, Dave, thanks for suggesting this place. You are going to make yourself indispensable if you keep feeding me. How’d you come to pick the Gatto anyway? I thought you were new to town.”
“Oh,” he said taking the second slice of pizza, “Mario said I’d like it, and he was right. They don’t have places like this in the country.” He sat back and patted his firm tummy. “If I keep eating like this, it’ll be bike rides and working out every day for me. Maybe I should switch to being a bike cop.”
“That’s an idea. Thanks for the time-out. I’ve been running around so much that I’ve been mostly drinking smoothies and coffee. And it’s good that you didn’t order seafood, although I love the stuff and had a great seafood taco at lunch. I need vegetables and carbs just now.”
“Yep, I needed a break too,” he said, sighing.
How could I have had my doubts about his part in the case? He was so sincere and looked so worn out, I realized that the investigation must be taking its toll on him too. I decided to hold off on asking him about it until we had finished eating. If there was anything important, he would have told me by now.
We ate companionably, and I found myself relaxing a little more. The Gatto always had a great eclectic collection of black cat memorabilia: paintings by local artists and knickknacks that have been brought in over the years. One benefit of the brighter, renovated space was that the paintings and bric-a-brac were enhanced by the light and were much easier to see. I realized as I sat across from it that the large iconic painting of Carmine in the window of his old place was much more colourful than I originally thought.
Once we’d finished every crumb of our two pizzas, I asked Dave casually, “Any news today? I already heard from my mother that our lawyer and friend, Juaneva Martin, was in Bracebridge applying for bail.”
He nodded, smiling. “For once I have some good news. She succeeded and is on her way home with Frank as we speak. I called Maria earlier to give her the news, but Juaneva had already let her know. She is, understandably, very relieved.”
He continued, “The judge was reticent initially, but Frank agreed to all conditions and promised to return to face the assault charges at a later date. He is very anxious to get home, and Juaneva said it was difficult to get him to be calm enough to look like a good candidate for bail. Still, when she vouched for him and explained the situation, she prevailed.”
“Thank goodness,” I sighed. “Of course he would be distraught and angry about not being there for the family. I just hope he can calm down enough to be helpful and not become a loose cannon because, even before this, it sounds like Frank was pretty stressed out.” I decided not to comment on his drinking. “Now we have to find Thomas. Any new leads?”
He shook his head sadly. “Not really. We still have an APB on Paul and a few other ideas, but nothing is panning out. It’s not good, Abby,” he said seriously. “The longer this goes on, statistically, the less likely it is that there will be a positive outcome.”
I gulped. “I know, but these situations sometimes do turn out well, and I have to pin my hopes on that. It keeps me going. By the way, I keep meaning to ask: what happened with the children who were abducted under your watch up north?”
“It was very strange,” he said. “I can’t tell you everything, but I can tell you this much. There was one boy and one girl. They both disappeared from small towns not far from Thunder Bay. The situation was the same; they both came from families under stress, but the difference was that the children were not missed as soon as Thomas was. Each time, due to an anonymous phone call, the child was found a few days later wandering on the main street of their town.”
“How horrible, but it’s a good thing they were let go. Were they okay?”
“They were traumatized. The big similarity was that neither child would speak at all about what happened. They were very scared and would not talk. To this day, psychiatrists are working with them to try to get them to open up about what happened. The first child, the boy, may have been sexually assaulted, but we had no real evidence of it and he simply wouldn’t speak. There was no evidence of physical interference with the little girl. They were seven and eight years old.
“We had no clues but, as I said before, Paul had been in both towns doing odd jobs at the same time as both disappearances. In the first case, he was known to hang around the school, shooting hoops in the schoolyard later in the day and in the summer months, so he might have come across the little boy. If he is involved, he is wily—he didn’t get caught either time.”
My stomach turned. “Have you traced back his history? He told me he used to live in the Maritimes. Maybe this sort of thing happened there too.”
Dave nodded. “We’re trying to trace it back, but we don’t know much about him. He was drifting around the north. Also, Paul may not have been his name originally. But you’re right; there may be other cases like this. He’s young and might be just venturing into this territory.”
“Are you thinking he’s a pedophile? Isn’t he too young?”
He shook his head gravely. “You’d think so, but I’ve been researching this behaviour. The latest research shows that young men and some women realize early on they are attracted to children—sort of the same as when young people realize they’re gay or heterosexual or bisexual. It turns out that young pedophiles may even have had sexual contact with younger kids before they realized it was wrong. And in these days of the internet, there are lots of pictures they can access too.”
“That would make coming forward a real problem for someone feeling that way,” I commented. “I always thought that that kind of behaviour only came from those who had been abused or traumatized at a very young age.”
“That’s what I thought too until I started doing my research.” Dave was thoughtful. “There’s a young man who started a blog that he shares with a few other young people who have self-identified and want to help themselves come to terms with how to cope without doing wrong. They are very conflicted and full of self-loathing.”
“Wow, I have never felt any sympathy for these people before, but what you’re telling me makes me feel a little sad for them.”
“Most people don’t know this or think about it either.”
“But we don’t know if any of this is related to Thomas’s case, do we? Right now, he’s simply missing.”
“Yes, but don’t forget that the common link between these cases may be Paul, with his coincidental disappearance and his unclear past.”
