for $300 and the other a payment of $176.25 at The Bay department store. Neither one would have been a preauthorized automatic withdrawal.
“Can you tell where these transactions occurred?” he asked.
“I can tell you the ATM right away.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “The TD bank on Pretoria Avenue in the Glebe.”
Whelan frowned. The Glebe was an old residential neighbourhood south of Centretown and Pretoria was a short street running along its northern edge. However, neither Pretoria nor the Glebe was anywhere near Meredith’s work, her home or her fiancé’s home.
“For The Bay, you will have to find out their store code through them.” The manager smiled. “But I’m sure with a little detective work you can find out not only what store she shopped at but what she bought there. It’s all on computers now.”
Whelan nodded absently as he folded the printout into his growing file. His mind was already racing ahead to a better idea—the security camera at the ATM in the Glebe. As he rose to leave, she looked up at him, startled.
“Don’t you want to know credit card activity too?”
He sat down with a thud, cursing his stupidity. Getting old and soft behind a desk.
She clicked more links. “Now, there is a time lag with credit cards, because businesses have to submit the charge to VISA, which has to approve it. It can take a couple of days, so to get the most up-to-date charges, we will have to contact the VISA office itself. However, this list is worth a look.” She printed off the past two months, and Whelan studied them. At first glance there was nothing suspicious. The card had a modest balance of $2110.36 owing, and the latest charge had been posted on the Monday of Meredith’s disappearance—a charge of twenty-five dollars at D’Arcy McGee’s, a trendy downtown pub, the previous Saturday. Other charges over recent weeks were for shoes, liquor, gas, adventure gear, pharmacy supplies and odds and ends. As he scanned the list, he was aware of the bank manager on the phone with the credit card company. She was jotting notes as she listened and a flicker of curiosity crossed her face. When she hung up, she glanced again at her calendar.
“Any activity after Monday?” he prompted.
“No, but on Monday she did make another charge, which is just going through now. To the bus company for sixty-eight dollars.”
Whelan blinked. Bus company! “What did she buy?”
“You’ll have to ask the bus company. Our records just show the transaction.”
He was already on his feet again, ignoring the creaking in his knees as he stuffed the papers into his file. His heart was racing with excitement. If the purchase was for a bus ticket out of town, the woman might still be alive!
* * *
In his excitement, Whelan revved his unmarked car so fast that the tires spun on the ice coming out of the parking lot. Sunlight glared off the snow and snowbanks canyoned the streets, further reducing visibility. Cars raced by, splattering salty slush on his windshield as he tried to merge onto Carling Avenue. He steered carefully towards downtown, his thoughts running ahead. First the bus station and the ATM. Should he call this in? At least ask for some help with the security tapes? He was an old desk jockey working a double shift and in the field again for the first time in three years.
He slipped onto the Queensway for the latter half of the trip and took the exit for the bus terminal. First things first. Find out where the woman had gone, and when.
Just before Christmas, the inter-city station was full of travellers, many of them students laden down with backpacks and shopping bags of presents. Long lines had already formed at the platforms for the Montreal and Toronto Express buses. A chatter of voices reverberated around the huge room. The station manager looked harried from his efforts to handle the overflow, but he barely glanced at Whelan’s badge in his eagerness to cooperate. The plight of Meredith Kennedy had captured the city, and any assistance that the bus company could provide in finding her would be not only a goodwill gesture but a PR coup as well. It took the manager less than two minutes on his computer to locate the purchase involved.
“It was a return ticket to Montreal purchased at 9:27 a.m. on December 13. Departing at 10:00 a.m. and returning at 6:00 p.m.”
“What day?”
“The same day. Monday. She bought the ticket and left right away.”
“Do you have confirmation she was on the bus?”
The manager’s face fell. “Not in the system. But why would she buy a ticket? She bought it right here.” He gestured out his office window to the large open area where customers snaked behind guide ropes up to the wickets.
“Then one of the ticket agents would remember her?”
“Possibly, although with these crowds...and of course, she could have used one of the machines.”
“You mean you don’t keep a record of who actually gets on the bus?” Whelan allowed some cop disapproval to resonate in his voice. He knew that the bus company had been under fire for their poor security controls, knew also that there was little money or political will to invest in changes. The bus system ferried Canada’s poor and working class from one little town to another across the country. Those with money and influence generally preferred planes, or at least VIA rail.
The manager glanced anxiously at the crowds milling in the room outside his office. Ticket sellers were overworked and frazzled, and carriers scrambled to add extra buses to handle the long lines. He started to shake his head then spoke reluctantly. “Well, we could check the ticket stubs. The bus drivers hand them in at the end of their shift. Do you want me to have someone go through those?”
Whelan arched his eyebrows. “Yes, please. And could I have the names and contact information of the bus drivers on those two runs?” Hauling himself to his feet, he stifled a grunt. Each hour his joints stiffened more. He handed the man his card and was pleased to see that before he was even out the door, the manager was already on the phone, eager for his own small moment of playing hero.
Outside the bus station, Whelan had to lean on his car roof to steady himself. Black spots floated before his eyes and a wave of fatigue crashed over him. The ATM had better be the last stop for today, he decided, before he became more a liability than an asset to the case.
He moved between sleep and wakefulness, drifting up and down as if billowing on a soft, fluffy cloud. He felt no pain or anguish, drugged by the Valium he’d taken at two in the morning. After two sleepless nights, he’d finally acknowledged he needed chemical help. He could barely think straight. On his latest shift, he had misread a consultant’s order and forgotten to sign a patient’s chart, and yet he’d lain awake at the end of it, exhausted but staring at the ceiling, unable to escape his thoughts. Meredith needed him. What help would he be to her, what guidance could he offer the police if he collapsed? If he could just get some rest, maybe everything would be clearer and calmer when he woke up.
But the Valium didn’t quite pull him under. He could still hear voices. The radio news droning on, the commercials blaring. Time stretched. Slipped away. More voices, different now. His mother on the phone. Endless people calling. How many friends did she have? He knew some of the calls were probably for him. Friends and colleagues wanting to help, the Addis Ababa people wanting to know if he was still a go. Curiosity seekers, psychics and other disaster junkies salivating for their next fix.
Meredith, what have you done? The cry welled from deep within him, jerking him above the surface. He wondered if he had spoken it aloud, and he clamped his hand over his mouth. He’d better be more vigilant. Valium was dangerous stuff, lowering his guard and loosening his tongue when he could least afford it. His mother had already warned him about that.
“Of course you’re angry!” she’d said at two in the morning when she found him pacing the kitchen. “No matter what happened, no matter who’s to blame,