“Oh, please.”
“And I’m recording this. Contact me again, Daisy Rittenberg, threaten me again, and I go straight to the media with this audio, because the other half of the deal was that you would leave me alone.”
The call goes dead.
Daisy stares at her phone. Her blood pounds.
Who in the hell is “Kit”？
MAL
November 1, 2019. Friday.
Mal and Benoit climb the stairs to Kit Darling’s apartment. It’s 8:43 p.m., and rain clatters loudly on the roof of the stairwell.
Lula and the rest of the team are still working to locate the Norths while Mal and Benoit check the maid’s residence for clues of her whereabouts. Mal also wants to obtain something that will provide a DNA sample to compare against blood evidence at the crime scene.
As they reach the second floor of the old building on Vancouver’s east side, Benoit says, “Daisy Rittenberg not recognizing that photo of Darling—do you buy it?”
“I’m not buying anything yet,” Mal says as they walk along the corridor, checking apartment unit numbers. The hallway is dimly lit, and it smells of curry from an Indian restaurant downstairs.
“And Vanessa North not calling after Daisy and Jon Rittenberg allegedly dropped flowers and pie and left in medical distress?”
“Daisy claims she met pregnant Vanessa at prenatal yoga classes. Ty Binty also said Daisy came into the bistro with her pregnant friend. We can check in with the yoga people tomorrow. Maybe they can shed some light on where Vanessa and Haruto North might be.”
As they reach Darling’s unit, Benoit freezes. His hand shoots up, stopping Mal. He puts a finger to his lips and points.
There’s a light on inside Darling’s apartment. The door is slightly ajar. A silhouette moves inside.
Mal and Benoit exchange a hot glance. Benoit motions to Mal, and without a word, they move in unison into positions on either side of the apartment door. They hear a crash inside, followed by a groan.
They withdraw their weapons.
Standing to the side of the door, weapon drawn, Mal reaches forward, knocks. “Hello? Anyone in there? This is the police.”
Silence.
“Hello?” Benoit yells. “Police. We’re coming in!”
Mal shoves the door. It swings open wide. Benoit pivots into the entryway, giving Mal cover as she follows.
They see a man bending over a table near the window, his back to them.
“Police.” Benoit’s voice booms through the small apartment. “Step away from that table, sir. Identify yourself.”
The man spins around, sees them, gasps. His hands shoot up into the air, and he drops the glass jar he was holding. It crashes to the floor. The glass shatters, and the contents explode across the apartment.
“Stop!” the man yells with his hands in the air. “Please. I—I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
“Identify yourself, sir,” Benoit demands.
“Excuse me?” The man cocks his head to the side and leans slightly forward, like he can’t hear.
“Your name, sir,” Benoit booms. “What is your name?”
“S-Samuel Berkowitz. I-I live next door.” He’s stuttering, shaking in fear.
“What are you doing in this apartment?” Benoit asks. “Why did you not respond?”
“Pardon me. I can’t hear.”
Louder, Benoit says, “What are you doing in this apartment, sir? Why did you not respond?”
Mal glances at the mess on the floor. It looks like birdseed.
“I don’t have my hearing aids in. Do—do you mind if I put in my aids?”
Benoit lowers his weapon. Mal keeps hers trained on the old man in case he pulls a trick.
Sam Berkowitz, with shaking, liver-spotted hands, fumbles in his pocket and extracts his hearing devices. He struggles to insert them into his ears because he’s shaking so hard.
“I don’t like to wear them all the time,” the old man says. His eyes water, tears gathering in creases. “I came to get Morbid’s food. He’s Kit’s one-legged stray crow. I-I have a key to her apartment. Kit has a key to my place, too, just in case either of us needs help with anything. She asked me to feed Morbid if something happened to her. You . . . you shocked me.”
“Apologies, sir. I’m Corporal Benoit Salumu.” He holsters his weapon.
“And I’m Sergeant Mallory Van Alst.” Mal secures her own weapon into the holster under her jacket. She produces her ID. “We’re trying to locate Kit Darling.”
“Is she officially missing, then?” Sam Berkowitz asks. He looks crumpled.
“Can we help you step away from that broken glass at your feet, sir?” As Benoit steps forward, glass crunches under his heavy work boots. He takes the man’s arm and steers him carefully away from shards among the seeds scattered across the floor.
“Can I sit down?” Berkowitz asks. “My heart—such a shock. It’s a galloping horse.”
Benoit pulls up a chair and helps Sam Berkowitz seat himself. “Are you in need of medical attention, sir? Can I check your pulse? I am first aid certified,” Benoit says.
The man pushes up his sleeve and holds out his arm. “I’m sure I’m fine. Just need to catch my breath.”
Mal notices a tattoo on the inside of the man’s forearm. Benoit sees it, too. He glances at Mal.
Concentration camp, she thinks. Sam Berkowitz is a Holocaust survivor. Her chest tightens. As Benoit checks Berkowitz’s pulse, Mal goes into the kitchen to fetch the man a glass of water.
As she runs the tap, she casts her gaze over the kitchen. It’s small. Old. A pot of basil on the windowsill. A collection of colorful little teapots. Photos are stuck to the fridge along with postcards from places like Thailand, Iceland, Kenya, the Galápagos, Patagonia, Australia, Cambodia. While the water is running, Mal checks the backs of some of the postcards. No text, no postmarks. These were not sent from anyone. Kit Darling must have acquired them in some other way, and kept them. Mal leans forward and studies a photograph of a group of young people. Kit is among them. There’s another photo of Kit Darling alone in front of a waterfall. Laughing, vibrant, tanned, her blonde hair blowing loose, her arm full of bracelets.
Mal fills a glass and takes it to Sam Berkowitz. “Do you know who those people are with Kit Darling in that photo on the fridge, Mr. Berkowitz?”
His eyes mist. “They’re her theater-group friends. I don’t know all their names—just Boon’s. She collected those postcards. All places she’d like to go. Kit dreams of traveling around the world, you know. She always says if she wins a lottery, that’s what she’ll do. What happened to her? Is she okay?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Benoit releases the man’s wrist. “Your ticker seems to have calmed itself down, sir. Let us know if you feel unwell. Sorry to have spooked you like that.”
Mal hands him the glass of water. He drinks it using two hands.
“We understand Kit was absent from her job today,” Mal says. “Her employer and her friend have expressed concern. Can you tell us when you last saw her?”
“Day before yesterday. She helped me carry grocery bags up to my apartment. I knew something was wrong. I could tell. She was quiet. Sort of a pensive mood. Then she asked me to feed her wild crow if something happened to her.” His eyes fill with moisture again. “I should have done something. I could see she was scared.”