Grave Situation by Alex MacLean Page B

Below the overhanging branch of an elm tree
ran a patch of moss down one side. Wrought-iron bars covered the
windows of the basement and first floor.
    Allan pulled his car to the curb,
shut off the engine, and got out.
    Five cement steps lead him to a
glass door. He opened the door and entered the building. From all
appearances the inside reflected as much neglect as the outside.
Graffiti defaced the walls. There were holes in the plaster the
size of fists. The carpet was stained and smelled musky. The
floorboards creaked underneath his step.
    Doors ran down both sides of the
hallway. In front of him a stairwell rose to the second floor.
Grabbing hold of a flimsy banister, he climbed two steps and then
stopped. He had seen much poverty in his life, conditions in which
no one should have to live. In recent years, the disparity between
the rich and poor seemed to be escalating. Yet despite the
privation here, there was one small sign of a fight for human
dignity in the face of such hardship—a child’s red tricycle sitting
above him on the landing.
    Cathy Ambré’s apartment was the
last door on the right. Allan knocked softly. There was silence.
Then came the sound of movement inside. The door cracked open to
the length of a safety chain. The woman who peeked out had black
curly hair and green eyes. She was wearing a red blouse and black
slacks.
    “Miss Cathy Ambré?”
    The woman’s lips parted.
“Yes?”
    “I’m Lieutenant Allan Stanton with
the Halifax Regional Police Major Crimes Unit.” He flashed his
badge and ID card. “Earlier this afternoon you came down and filed
a missing persons report about your sister, Trixy
Ambré?”
    Cathy swallowed.
Her wary eyes moved to his badge, to the folder in his other hand
and then back to his face. For a moment, she was silent. When she
spoke again, her voice was cautious. “Yes, I did. It’s not bad news, is
it?”
    “No. I’d like to ask you a few
questions, if I may.”
    Cathy hesitated for a moment, as if
reluctant to let him in.
    “Okay,” she said
finally.
    Gently, she shut the door. There
was the sound of a chain sliding across a latch. When the door
opened again, Cathy drew aside.
    “Come in.”
    The apartment was small. The
furnishings were spare, undistinguished. To his left, Allan saw a
small, square living room. Inside sat a gray sofa with worn arms. A
glass-top coffee table and a twenty-inch television were perched on
a wooden stand in the corner. The single window faced Brewer
Street. There still remained enough of the setting sun to brighten
the room inside.
    Opposite the living room was the
kitchen. An old electric stove. A table with two place settings.
Here and there, pieces of linoleum had peeled off the floor. The
sink was empty, the counter-top wiped cleaned. Despite the
condition of the building, the apartment was well kept.
    In front of Allan was a hallway
that led into three other rooms. Two bedrooms and a
bath.
    When he turned to Cathy he saw that
she still held the door open.
    There was something unhealthy about
her, he observed. Skin too pale. Dark smudges under her eyes. Body
wire-thin, almost anorexic. Posture slightly stooped, as if she
were suffering from osteoporosis. The most striking feature about
her was the staring look of her eyes.
    Allan paused as he noticed the
raised scars in the crooks of her arms. Inwardly, he
winced.
    Needle tracks. Such a
waste.
    He studied her some more and
couldn’t see any signs that she was under the influence of drugs at
that moment. Her pupils were not constricted. Her speech, though
soft, was clear, not slurred.
    “This will take a few minutes,
Miss Ambré,” Allan told her. “You can shut the door.”
    She did so. Slowly, she shuffled
toward him with eyes downcast. The frequent kneading of her blouse
revealed her uneasiness. There was a frailty to her steps, Allan
noticed.
    Concerned, he asked, “Are you
feeling well?”
    She looked up. “I’ve been sick. But
I’m getting better.”
    “Maybe