Cut to the Quick by Joan Boswell Read Free Book Online Page B

second interview.” Rhona drove them back to headquarters, where they split up, picked up their own cars and headed home. Cruising up Yonge Street toward her apartment, Rhona considered Toronto air. Almost midnight, and it remained chokingly thick and oppressive. Why hadn’t someone warned her about summer air pollution?
    Back in her shabby apartment, she stripped off her working outfit, her tailored and now crushed black linen pantsuit, perspiration-stained silk blouse and black cowboy boots and tossed them toward her unmade bed.
    Opie, her oversize tortoiseshell cat, vocalizing his displeasure at his long, boring day, stalked around her legs. Then he batted at her without sheathing his claws. He didn’t like the new apartment either, and she didn’t blame him. For the same price she’d paid for her spacious Ottawa townhouse, they rented a cramped one-bedroom apartment. Probably built on the cheap right after World War Two, it had concrete walls, window air-conditioners unequal to their task and mold in the bathroom fan outlet.
    Right now, mold or not, a shower was the answer. Then she’d treat herself to a vodka martini. She couldn’t solve the crime tonight, unless her unconscious worked overtime and woke her at dawn with a brilliant insight.
    Rhona, after a night of broken sleep, woke at first light, shortly after five, found the Advil and gulped two. Once the pills began working, she attended to the one domestic chore she could no longer postpone—she cleaned the cat’s litter box. That task completed, she offered Opie an extra-special breakfast of tinned tuna, filled his water bowl and topped up his cat kibble, knowing how much he’d resent it. He condescended to eat dry food only if he believed starvation threatened.
    Domestic duties done, she luxuriated under the shower. Two good things about her apartment were strong water pressure and a large shower head. By six thirty, she’d dressed in a blue seersucker pantsuit, navy blouse and black cowboy boots, eaten a bagel and made coffee. She poured herself a rejuvenating mug before she filled a thermos. Since Frank disapproved of coffee shop stops, she’d brew her own and haul it to work.
    * * *
    â€œI thought you’d arrive early.” Zee Zee greeted her at seven and pointed to Frank’s office. “We didn’t beat him, but we’re here and ready to roll. Let’s dig into the data bank and identify SOHD ’s opponents? If they’re the same anti-abortionists I know, we’ll find two names I’ve dealt with before—Barney Evans and Allie Jones.”
    Minutes later, she reported to Rhona. “Barney’s out on parole after serving time for assaulting a police officer. I’m still steamed because we couldn’t convict him in the Oshawa doctor’s murder.” She clenched her jaw. “I’d love to put him away.”
    â€œWhat about the woman?”
    â€œAllie’s got a sheet as well. Mostly from protests and demonstrations where she attacked police officers or resisted arrest. She presents herself as a sweet, neatly-groomed woman who stays at home baking apple pies. But if you’ve ever seen her face when she’s picketing an abortion clinic, you realize what a front that is. She’s vicious and single-minded—she says she’ll do anything to stop abortions. Don’t underestimate her.”
    â€œLovely. Which one do you want to interview?”
    â€œBarney. We’ll go now.”
    The parole office provided Barney’s current Port Credit address. While she drove, Rhona reviewed what she’d read about the community. Port Credit had once been a working class suburban district where small houses crowded around now-deserted factories, mute reminders of Canada’s past manufacturing history. Rail lines ran through the area, and Lake Ontario wasn’t far away. They pulled up in front of a tiny clapboard house. A mowed lawn and