out the front window. When something caught her eye, she jumped up and rushed outside. Rasheed went out with her, as if, Kennicott thought, he was putting her in a taxi. Kennicott checked the logbook and read the entry: “Taxi for Mrs. Brace, 1:20, Rasheed.”
Earlier that morning, Brace had left the condominium at the regular time. The people at the radio station said he followed his usual routine. But that afternoon he didn’t come back home.
Just before five o’clock Brace and Torn walked back into the lobby. Clearly they’d met up somewhere. Kennicott ran the tape back and confirmed that Brace was wearing the same clothes he had on earlier, when he’d left for work. Neither Torn’s diary nor her Palm Pilot had anything listed for that afternoon. That night the couple didn’t go out. Where, Kennicott wondered, had they gone?
It was about four in the morning when Kennicott got to Katherine Torn’s wallet. He’d intentionally left it to the end. The wallet would be more meaningful if he knew as much as possible about her life before he looked at it.
This wasn’t the first time he had examined the wallet of a dead person. Four and a half years ago he’d pulled apart his brother Michael’s wallet and every other possession he could find. Credit card receipts, phone bills, bank records, electronic calendar, computer hard drive, desk drawers, and even Mike’s garbage. It was amazing how much youcould learn about a dead person—and disturbingly intrusive. He’d found a plane ticket to Florence, a car-rental receipt, hotel reservations, and a raft of brochures about an Italian hill town named Gubbio. There was an annual summer crossbow contest scheduled for the following week. He still hadn’t figured out why his brother was going there.
Poor Katherine Torn. Clearly she was a very private person. Now she lay dead on a slab in the morgue, a complete stranger wearing surgical gloves combing through her life. Kennicott had asked forensics to copy all of the wallet’s contents and to put each item back exactly as they’d found them. It wasn’t just what was in a wallet that was important, but how the things were arranged. The location, the order, the feel.
He began at the change purse. He counted out $2.23 in change, three subway tokens, and a laundry pickup slip for three men’s shirts. The first compartment held forty-five dollars in bills and six different coupons for things like breakfast cereal, laundry soap, and kitchen cleaner. There was a dog-eared frequent-user’s card from the Lettieri Espresso Bar and Café on Front Street. Three of the ten squares were stamped.
Looks like she was a penny-pincher, Kennicott thought as he opened the next compartment. It was filled with plastic cards. She had a Visa and a MasterCard, a library card, a Royal Ontario Museum card, and cards from five different department stores. The store cards struck him right away. Department stores were notorious for charging outrageously high interest rates, usually preying upon the poor and, in Toronto, the teeming immigrant population. Kennicott had seen this when he was a lawyer. Clients who appeared to be wealthy, but in fact were desperately trying to keep up with their monthly payments. They’d spread their debt around like this, digging deeper and deeper holes for themselves.
The third compartment held a fistful of receipts and Torn’s checkbook. Kennicott worked his way through each item. She had carefully recorded the date and spending category on each slip of paper: household, entertainment, personal. Her handwriting was jagged, forced. He looked through her check stubs. Mostly small purchases. Her onlyextravagance seemed to be personal-care items from a very chic store in Yorkville, the city’s upscale boutique area. Kennicott had been there too many times. When his ex-girlfriend Andrea got into modeling, she had become a regular customer, and like Torn, she’d bought a seemingly endless supply of products: sponges,
Earlier that morning, Brace had left the condominium at the regular time. The people at the radio station said he followed his usual routine. But that afternoon he didn’t come back home.
Just before five o’clock Brace and Torn walked back into the lobby. Clearly they’d met up somewhere. Kennicott ran the tape back and confirmed that Brace was wearing the same clothes he had on earlier, when he’d left for work. Neither Torn’s diary nor her Palm Pilot had anything listed for that afternoon. That night the couple didn’t go out. Where, Kennicott wondered, had they gone?
It was about four in the morning when Kennicott got to Katherine Torn’s wallet. He’d intentionally left it to the end. The wallet would be more meaningful if he knew as much as possible about her life before he looked at it.
This wasn’t the first time he had examined the wallet of a dead person. Four and a half years ago he’d pulled apart his brother Michael’s wallet and every other possession he could find. Credit card receipts, phone bills, bank records, electronic calendar, computer hard drive, desk drawers, and even Mike’s garbage. It was amazing how much youcould learn about a dead person—and disturbingly intrusive. He’d found a plane ticket to Florence, a car-rental receipt, hotel reservations, and a raft of brochures about an Italian hill town named Gubbio. There was an annual summer crossbow contest scheduled for the following week. He still hadn’t figured out why his brother was going there.
Poor Katherine Torn. Clearly she was a very private person. Now she lay dead on a slab in the morgue, a complete stranger wearing surgical gloves combing through her life. Kennicott had asked forensics to copy all of the wallet’s contents and to put each item back exactly as they’d found them. It wasn’t just what was in a wallet that was important, but how the things were arranged. The location, the order, the feel.
He began at the change purse. He counted out $2.23 in change, three subway tokens, and a laundry pickup slip for three men’s shirts. The first compartment held forty-five dollars in bills and six different coupons for things like breakfast cereal, laundry soap, and kitchen cleaner. There was a dog-eared frequent-user’s card from the Lettieri Espresso Bar and Café on Front Street. Three of the ten squares were stamped.
Looks like she was a penny-pincher, Kennicott thought as he opened the next compartment. It was filled with plastic cards. She had a Visa and a MasterCard, a library card, a Royal Ontario Museum card, and cards from five different department stores. The store cards struck him right away. Department stores were notorious for charging outrageously high interest rates, usually preying upon the poor and, in Toronto, the teeming immigrant population. Kennicott had seen this when he was a lawyer. Clients who appeared to be wealthy, but in fact were desperately trying to keep up with their monthly payments. They’d spread their debt around like this, digging deeper and deeper holes for themselves.
The third compartment held a fistful of receipts and Torn’s checkbook. Kennicott worked his way through each item. She had carefully recorded the date and spending category on each slip of paper: household, entertainment, personal. Her handwriting was jagged, forced. He looked through her check stubs. Mostly small purchases. Her onlyextravagance seemed to be personal-care items from a very chic store in Yorkville, the city’s upscale boutique area. Kennicott had been there too many times. When his ex-girlfriend Andrea got into modeling, she had become a regular customer, and like Torn, she’d bought a seemingly endless supply of products: sponges,
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