The city began expropriating parts of The Ward just after the turn of the century, and the area was pretty much gone by the 1960s. When plans were made to build Nathan Phillips Square right where Chinatown was, the Chinese community moved to the Spadina and Dundas region, where much of it remains today. These days, the area where The Ward once stood is called the Discovery District, and it’s full of glass skyscrapers, government buildings including the city hall, cutting-edge research hospitals, and the very popular tourist attraction and commercial landmark, the Toronto Eaton Centre.
It strikes me that Rosie Ryan might have lived in The Ward. Maybe my very own roots grew through that soil. The idea curls through me and warms me inside. I complete my inspection of the garden, noting some loose floor tiles and suggesting that someone examine the garden wall, since there are a few vertical cracks breaking through.
As I’m finishing up, police cars arrive with sirens screaming. They park directly beneath me, on Front Street, by the hotel’s entrance. There’s an ambulance as well. I hop into the elevator and go straight to the lobby, where everything seems fine, though guests are milling around, curious. I work my way around them, heading toward a policeman. Hoping to get the inside scoop, I flash my name and credentials, but he’s not interested, just tells me to stand back, please.
Gary suddenly appears, having rushed out of the service elevator. He is pale and distraught. Before he can leave, I stop him and ask what’s going on. This time he doesn’t have a snarky response for me.
“They found Paul,” he says hoarsely. “He’s dead. Crushed under a pile of crates in the basement.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. “What?!”
“They say his body’s been there a couple of days.”
I back up a step, covering my mouth with my hand and trying to breathe normally. Was he lying here dead on Friday night when I was surreptitiously exploring another part of the basement? I can picture Paul clearly, so proud to show me all those family photos. I hear him laughing about the ghosts in the pipes. And I hear him whispering:
These Montey parts are crap… I probably shouldn’t have told you any of this, Miss Kelly. Forget I told you. If you get into it, you’ll be digging into some dangerous dirt.
“I gotta go. Police wanna talk to me at the station,” Gary says. He regards me with huge, frightened eyes. “Tell me honestly, Miss Kelly. Did Paul say anything to you about… I mean, did he…”
I know what’s coming. I concentrate on keeping a very straight face, revealing nothing.
“Did he ever talk with you about those, uh, those crates you keep asking about?”
“No. Neither of you told me anything. What about them?”
He scans the lobby, obviously nervous. “It’s nothing. Never mind. Gotta go. Take care of yourself.”
He’s gone, and I am officially terrified. And yet, I need to see. The service elevator door is right there, so I slip inside and push the button for the subbasement before anyone can see me. When the door opens again, I am a little alarmed to see so many people standing in the corridor, since it’s usually pretty empty. But I’m here now. I assume the expression of someone who belongs here, marching purposefully through the loitering crowd of police. I used a different entrance last time I was down here, so it’s like I’m seeing it from a different angle now. Still, I feel a jolt as I step inside the big area where Paul had first mentioned the ghosts in the pipes to me.
I hardly recognize the place. Pieces of busted wooden crates are piled on top of each other and cover the floor, like the fallout of an avalanche. All of them are markedMSI. The little white boxes that had filled the crates have spilled out. Scattered nails and screws shine under the lights. I shudder, thinking of Paul trapped under all that. It sounds awful, but I hope he died quickly. I hope he didn’t suffer. Then I spot one of the crates, still in one piece on the other side of the room, and I can’t help wondering. Have the police found the packets of white powder yet?
There aren’t as many people in here, but the half dozen or so are busy taking photographs, dusting things for prints, all those things you see on TV. There are also three men hunched over a body. Paul’s body. I walk resolutely toward the unaffected crate, about fifteen feet away, amazed I’ve gotten this far. Why am I bothering? Even if I get to that crate, I can’t open it, because I don’t have any tools with me. I hadn’t planned ahead for illegally investigating a crime scene.
I feel sick. They’ve set up little white tent cards labelling the evidence at the scene of the crime, and I see one by Paul’s hat. An unexpected pang of grief hits me. One of the policemen shifts, and that’s when I see Paul, facedown on the floor. His face is turned my way, though it is so blood-covered and stiff, I barely recognize him. Gary said the police reckoned Paul had been here for two days. Did he have a chance to call for help?
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
I jump, then face a uniformed policewoman approaching from the side.I assume my professional face automatically, but from her cool expression, I know the effort isn’t appreciated. I grab my card from my pocket, then hold out my hand.
“Hi. I’m Bridget Kelly. I’m with Vale’s. I’m the building inspector assigned here, and I needed to check—”
She takes my card. “You can’t be here right now, Miss Kelly. This is a police matter.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I fake, stepping back. “What happened? An accident?”
“I am unable to divulge anything to members of the public,” she replies with a pointed glare. “Please go.”
I have seen too many weird things lately. In my head, I think, well, if itwasan accident, she would have just said yes to that. She did not. Do they think it’s a suspicious death? Frankly, I do. Now I am like Gary: I need to get out of the building right away.
I’m back on the elevator and quick-walking through the lobby on my way out when I hear the woman at reception call my name. I’m not sure how she even knows it, but I head over.
“This was left for you,” she says.
I take the brown paper envelope she hands me. It has my name scribbled on it, but nothing else. “Who left it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. It was here when I arrived this morning.”
I slide my finger under the closed flap, then stop. I’ll check it out once I’m out of here. I can’t stay in the hotel another minute. I give the receptionist a friendly thank-you, then I head out to Front Street.
