âIs this the roomâs single photo because he loved his brother, or because it was the only childâs photograph he could legitimately display?â
âItâs horrible when you have to ask questions like that. Itâs a wonder all cops arenât total cynics,â Rhona said.
Heavy cookbooks and photo albums crammed particle board bookshelves that sagged under their weight. Ivan had filed hundreds of recipes in photo album pockets intended for 4x6 pictures. This storage system was new to Rhona. If she ever found time to cook in a serious way, sheâd remember.
In one album, she found a card with fellow studentsâ names and phone numbers. Sheâd faxed George Brown earlier for class lists. âWe need his cell phone number to check his calls,â Rhona said, showing the card to Zee Zee, who stood at Ivanâs desk sorting through the papers in the file drawer.
âHe designated one for bills.â Zee Zee extracted a red folder and thumbed through it. âHere they are. Weâll go back a couple of months and track them. Wasnât he a tidy young man? I wish I kept my records in such good order.â She straightened up and allowed her glance to sweep the room. âIf his computer isnât here and isnât at his motherâs, where is it?â
âAt his motherâs, I wondered about child pornography.
Maybe thatâs why he locked the door. Maybe when he figured she was reading his email, he took his computer and left home?â
âI had the same thought. It might provide motivation for his murder. Weâll run his name through the records in the sex crimes unit.â
âWe have to find the computer. Before we leave here, weâll see if anyone can tell us.â
Rhona waved the card listing studentsâ names. âSome students may come to the visitations or attend the funeralâ weâll talk to them.â She considered the card. âIn the meantime, weâll match names with phone numbers and call the ones he spoke to most frequently.â
* * *
âAbsolutely no idea,â Curt said when asked about the computerâs whereabouts as they were leaving.
They talked outside as they headed for the car. âWe have a lot to checkâIvanâs mystery life, Curtâs enemiesâthe list grows ever longer,â Rhona said.
âNot much we can do about Ivanâs life tonight. If SOHD âs opponents are the same people as the anti-abortionists, Iâve run into them before. They allegedly murdered an abortion clinic doctor. I say allegedly, because the police never pinned it on themâthe killing remains unsolved. If itâs the same lot, we shouldnât underestimate themâthose men and women are dangerous. As for Arthur White...â Zee Zeeâs voice trailed off.
âShould we talk to him tonight?â
âWhy not? Itâs not late. Our appearance on his doorstep may unsettle him enough that he unintentionally reveals something. Iâll interview. I knew him years ago in my other life.â
Rhona found a parking spot close to Arthur Whiteâs apartment, a low rise near the intersection of St. Clair Avenue and Yonge Street. Ten thirty. It took a second and then a third push on the bell before a squeaky voice responded and buzzed them inside.
The elevator, shabby but clean, smelled like dogs, incontinent dogs. On the fifth floor, dim light and threadbare stained carpeting left an impression of genteel poverty. Halfway down the hall, a diminutive man with a halo of white curls awaited them. They followed him into a half-furnished apartment. Lighter coloured spaces on the wallpaper indicated where paintings had hung. In the living room, two upholstered chairs huddled on the bare floor. A darker wood rectangle in the roomâs centre acted like the carpet that must once have been there.
âShe took everything that belonged to her family, and half the things weâd