Cut to the Chase by Joan Boswell Read Free Book Online Page A

winced.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Ian asked.
    â€œPulled a muscle doing Pilates,” Rhona said. She cautiously leaned her body forward again. “These men were expendable. That doesn’t explain why they were killed.”
    â€œIt’s the general opinion that they were involved in the drug trade?”
    Rhona shook her head. “Too obvious. These guys were peripheral—small fry.” She moved herself a fraction of an inch to the right. “They weren’t operators—maybe mules, but I doubt it. I think the killer hates drugs and those who use them. Finding the person who hates drugs enough to kill men because they were addicted—that’s who we’re searching for. Whoever that someone is, he doesn’t frighten those he kills. That’s our perp.”
    â€œThat might explain those crimes, but I don’t see how it ties into the killing of the other man.” Ian steepled his fingers, tilted his head to one side and waited for her response.
    â€œIn my opinion it doesn’t. The perp beat the shit out of this guy before he died. His face smashed with something heavy—a crowbar, baseball bat—who knows. His fingers chopped off. No fingerprints. Whoever killed him didn’t want him identified. We have to wonder why.”
    â€œNo blood in the dumpster where we found him. Moved from somewhere—who knows—it’s a big city,” Ian said.
    â€œThe killer made sure the victim would be hard, if not impossible to identify. Why hasn’t someone missed him?”
    â€œObvious answers. Either he isn’t from Toronto, or those close to him don’t dare call us.” Ian swept up the pile of paper, held it aloft and shook it. “The answer is here. It would be good for our careers if we could identify the missing link.”
    Rhona’s phone rang. She listened for a moment, pushed the button to activate the speaker phone and motioned for Ian to listen. “Repeat that, please,” she said.
    â€œMy friend’s brother is missing. She’s afraid something terrible has happened to him,” Hollis said.
    Men disappeared every day; it was the nature of the beast. However, at this particular moment, Homicide had an unidentified male murder victim.
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that. Give me his particulars,” Rhona said.
    â€œI’ll put his sister, Candace Lafleur, on the line. She’ll provide the details.”
    â€œDetective Rhona Simpson speaking. Sorry to hear about your brother. Give me his vital statistics—name, age, height, weight, eye and hair colour, marital status, occupation, address, everything relevant. After that, tell me why you’re worried.”
    â€œDanson Lafleur. He’s twenty-four, single, six-foot-two, about one hundred and sixty-five pounds, blue eyes and brown hair. Danson’s a bouncer at the Starshine club, and he plays semi-professional lacrosse. He lives in an apartment on Bernard Street in the Annex.”
    â€œTattoos or scars?”
    â€œNo. He hated…” Candace paused.
    Rhona knew, as surely as if she’d been in the room with her, that Candace’s eyes had widened; she’d spoken as if her brother was dead. “My god, that was past tense. That shows how frightened I am. Anyway, he’s hated needles since he was a baby. I can’t remember any scars. He suffered the usual number of childhood falls and accidents, but none left scars.”
    Too bad. A snake twining on his bicep or a heart on his shoulder would help identify him. Today being tattooed seemed to be a rite of passage. Rhona had contemplated getting one relating to her Cree background but had rejected the idea of voluntarily suffering pain.
    Rhona said nothing about the man’s body lying unidentified in the morgue. He didn’t have identifying marks either, but comparing DNA or dental records would tell if Danson Lafleur and the man in the morgue were one and the