The Dominant Motive: An Alex Goldfinger Mystery

Chapter Two

ASHER HAYWORTH WAS FIVE YEARS OLD THE DAY HIS MOTHER VANISHED. Asher's father Mark told the police he and his wife argued the night of her disappearance. He accused Britney of having an affair on multiple occasions and in public.

"Britney repeatedly denied Mark's claims. She said his accusations were baseless and tried to reassure him, but Mark never believed her. He'd been drinking the day she went missing. His story is he had one too many, lost his temper and threw her out of the family home in front of Asher. Poor kid."

Detective Shep Goldfinger closed the file and placed it on his desk between us. He clasped his two hands together with his heavily-ringed interlaced fingers and stared at me.

"Why are you looking into the Hayworths, Ali?

"Why do I look into any case, Shep?"

Detective Shep Goldfinger is head of the Homicide and Missing Persons department for Toronto Police Services. He's in his early fifties, big, bald and not someone you would want to encounter in a darkened alley or in an aisle of the grocery store with low blood sugar. He's also my brother. If I didn't already know he was an officer of the law, I would have assumed he was leading a life of crime, probably with the Hell's Angels or some other gang.

"Asher showed up at my office. He thinks his father is responsible for this mother's death and he wants me to find him and bring him to justice."

"That's our job."

"I know that, but Asher isn't satisfied with the effort made by the police to date, and I can't say I blame him. They kind of botched the job, don't you think, Shep?"

"So, you think it's my fault?"

Red splotches began to creep up Shep's neck as he spoke.

"Of course not. You hadn't even graduated from police college when his mother went missing. We're talking about the detectives that were assigned to the case at the time she went missing."

"Those detectives trained me. They were my mentors."

Shep began cracking his knuckles, but I continued to ignore the warning signs.

"Okay, well that doesn't mean you're a shitty detective." I said, smiling.

"You can leave now, Ali."

"Fine, I will but not before you give me the name of the lead guy on the case at the time."

"Actually, it was a woman and you're an investigator. Look her up, yourself."

We shook goodbye because we're not huggers. We're not that kind of family. I felt Shep slip something into my hand. I looked at my palm. A yellow post-it note with a number was scribbled on it. I smiled, turning to exit Shep's office.

"Hey, Ali?"

"Yeah?" I said, turning to look back.

"Be careful. Mark Hayworth is not a nice guy. We all knew he did it. We just didn't have the physical evidence to arrest him."

"I get it, and thanks."

I left Detective Shep Goldfinger staring after me.

******

Hayworth file -- Monday, July 17

In January of 1998, when Asher was five years old, his mother Britney disappeared. Asher's father, Mark, told the police he and his wife argued the night of her disappearance. He accused his wife of having an affair. In fact, he had accused her on a number of occasions and in front of other people, including Asher's paternal grandmother, Evelyn Hayworth. Britney doggedly denied the accusations, but Mark refused to believe her. In the heat of the moment after one too many Pabst Blue Ribbons, he kicked her out. Mark told the police that after he calmed down, he called his mother to watch Asher while he went to look for his wife. According to his mother, her son wanted to apologize and beg Britney to come home. After several hours of driving around, he returned home, having not found Britney. Neither Mark nor Evelyn notified the police that Britney was missing. At the time, Hayworth said he assumed his wife had gone to stay with a girlfriend for the night. He figured she would show up the next day, but the only thing that showed up was her purse filled with her identification, cash and credit cards in a dumpster on Catbird Lane, behind the House on Parliament, a much loved and frequented British-style pub. It was the owner of the pub, Bob Warren, who found Britney's purse in the dumpster the day after she went missing; the police found her car a day later in the parking lot of Beech Nursery on Carlaw Avenue.

After I finished typing my notes, I picked up the phone and dialled the number on the post-it note Shep had given me. The phone rang half a dozen times before the gravelly voice of retired detective Judy Dyce filled my ear canal.

"Oh, hi Ali. I've been waiting for your call. Shep told me you asked to speak with me about the Hayworth case. Can I help you with something?"

"Well, yes I'd like to chat with you about the investigation at the time, if you don't mind. Are you free this afternoon? I'm happy to come to you."

"Of course, dear. Why don't you come on over. I'm on Balmoral near Avenue Road. Number one-seven-nine. You can't miss it. It's the only Gothic-looking monstrosity on the street. I'll be in the yard. Just come on back when you arrive. I'll leave the gate unlocked for you."

"Great. I'll see you shortly."

After I hit the end call button on my iPhone, I filled my reusable water bottle, grabbed my green canvas Tilly hat and messenger bag, and headed out the door to catch the 506 Carlton streetcar to Yonge Street, where I'd take the Line 1 subway up to St. Clair Avenue. From St. Clair Avenue, I'd catch the 512 St. Clair streetcar to Avenue Road and walk the rest of the way to Judy Dyce's home on Balmoral Avenue.

It might seem odd for a private investigator to take transit to conduct their investigations, but I live in Canada's most populous city. It is home to the oldest and largest transit system in the Greater Toronto Area. The Toronto Transit Commission (TTC) is a rapid transit system that has grown from one subway line -- the Yonge subway -- which opened in 1954 to a four-line transit system consisting of three heavy rail lines and one light metro line. Two additional light rail lines are to be completed in 2023, and the 15.6 kilometre Ontario line is set to open in 2031. While I'm not an eco-warrior throwing gallons of paint at precious, irreplaceable works of art to demonstrate my dismay at where we're headed ecologically, I feel it is my moral obligation to limit my participation in the demise of our natural environment by owning and driving a carbon dioxide-spewing passenger vehicle.