Cut to the Bone Read Free Page A

breathed shallowly and stepped back. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen a murder victim, but that didn’t make it easier. She put her hand on Ginny’s arm and turned them both toward the door. “Give me your cell phone to call the police.”
    Ginny placed the groceries on the floor before she dug into her shoulder bag and handed over a pink phone. Watching Hollis, she moaned, “Oh my god. She was nice. Why would anyone kill her?”
    â€œThe police will find her killer.”
    â€œThe police won’t give a fuck,” Ginny said harshly.
    â€œWhat?” Hollis stepped back in surprise.
    â€œGet real. She was a call girl. Cops don’t care about women like us. We’re throwaways.” Ginny bent to retrieve the groceries.
    Call girls.
    Hollis had had no idea. Fatima Nesrallah must be running an escort service. She had noticed that the women who lived on the fifth were an attractive lot, but she’d never suspected what trade they were practising.
    Did the police consider sex trade workers throwaways? Hollis didn’t want to believe it but suspected it was true.
    â€œBring the groceries with you,” Hollis said before she punched in 911.
    â€œThis is Hollis Grant, superintendent of the Strathmore Apartments, 68 Delisle Street. A young woman,” she paused. Sabrina’s last name had disappeared from her mind.
    â€œYes,” the male voice on the line prompted.
    â€œA young woman has been murdered.”
    â€œAre you in danger?”
    â€œNo. She appears to have been dead for some time.”
    Ginny and Hollis rode the elevator in a deep silence, punctuated by Ginny’s occasional sniffle. In Hollis’s office Ginny collapsed on one of the two armless leather upholstered visitor’s chairs, covered her face with her hands, and cried.
    â€œGinny, the fire, police, ambulance, the whole response team will arrive in minutes. They’ll talk to us after they’ve been upstairs. We’ve suffered a shock. My knees feel shaky and …”
    Ginny dropped her hands and raised her head. “Me too. I’m all wobbly.”
    â€œNo time for hot, sweet tea but I have orange juice and I’ll get us both a glass. The sugar will help.”
    When the approaching siren screams shattered the morning calm, they gulped the juice and went to meet the police.

FOUR
    Assigned the task in late April, Rhona and Ian had laboured for more than a week examining files relating to the murder or disappearance of Aboriginal women. Rhona feared they’d find evidence of negligence but none surfaced. Now, on a cool May morning the two detectives faced each another in the homicide office, which hummed with activity.
    â€œEnough of this,” Ian said, holding up their summation. “We’re finished.”
    Rhona tapped her pen on the desk and surveyed the office. “God knows everyone is busy. We need to do our bit and work on an active case.” Her phone buzzed. “Right. Ian’s here. We’ll be right in,” she said.
    Ian raised an eyebrow.
    â€œLooks like I got my wish. Frank has a case for us. Bring the report.”
    When they entered his office, Frank was leaning back with his feet propped on his desk’s open bottom drawer.
    â€œSit down,” he said, waving a hand at the two steel- and blue-plastic chairs parked in front of him like recalcitrant students appearing before the principal.
    He lowered his feet before leaning forward. “So what did you discover?” he asked.
    Ian handed him the document and summarized their findings.
    A slight smile cracked Frank’s lips. “Good practice for your new assignment,” he said.
    Good practice — what did that mean?
    â€œIn the last twenty-four hours a perp slit a call girl’s throat. It’s your case. Not an Aboriginal, but given the fuss about sex trade workers and the accusations that the police don’t do enough …” He