Déjà Dead (45 page)

“What do you have?”

He heard me out without interrupting.

“Shit.”

Pause.

“Okay. I’ll take the map in so ident can pinpoint the location, then we’ll get a team out there.”

“I can take the map in,” I said.

“I think you should stay there. And I want a surveillance unit back on your building.”

“I’m not the one in danger,” I snapped. “This bastard’s got Gabby! He’s probably killed her already!”

My mask was crumbling. I fought to control the trembling in my hands.

“Brennan, I feel sick about your friend. I would help her in any way I could. Believe that. But you have to use your head. If this psychopath only got her purse but not her, she’s probably okay, wherever she is. If he has her and has shown us where to find her, he will have left her in whatever state he wants her found. We can’t change that. Meanwhile, someone put a note on your door, Brennan. The sonofabitch was in your building. He knows your car. If this guy is the killer, he won’t hesitate to add you to his list. Respect for life is not among his personality traits, and he seems to have focused on yours right now.”

He had a point.

“And I’ll get somebody on the guy you followed.”

I spoke slowly and softly. “I want ident to call me as soon as they pull up the location.”

“Bren—”

“Is that a problem?” Not so softly.

It was irrational and I knew it, but Ryan was sensitive to my growing hysteria, or was it rage? Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with me.

“No.”

Ryan got the envelope around midnight, and the ident unit called an hour later. They lifted one print from the card. Mine. The X marked an abandoned lot in St. Lambert. An hour later I got a second call from Ryan. A patrol unit had checked the lot and all surrounding buildings. Nothing. Ryan had arranged for recovery in the morning. Including dogs. We were going back to the south shore.

“What time tomorrow?” I said, my voice shaking, my grief for Gabby already too dreadful to bear.

“I’ll set it up for seven.”

“Six.”

“Six. Want a ride?”

“Thanks.”

He hesitated. “She may be fine.”

“Yeah.”

I went through the normal bedtime motions, though I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Teeth. Face. Hand lotion. Nightshirt. Then I wandered from room to room, trying not to think about the women on the bulletin boards. Murder scene photos. Autopsy descriptions. Gabby.

I adjusted a picture, repositioned a vase, picked fluff from the carpet. I felt cold, made myself a cup of tea, and turned down the air-conditioning. Minutes later, I shot it back up. Birdie withdrew to the bedroom, fed up with the pointless movement, but I couldn’t stop myself. The feeling of helplessness in the face of impending horror was unbearable.

Around two, I stretched out on the couch, closed my eyes, and tried to will myself to relax. Concentrate on night sounds. AC compressor. Ambulance. Trickle of taps on the floor above. Water flowing through a pipe. Wood creaking. Walls settling.

My mind drifted to a visual mode. Images floated past, spinning and tumbling like parts of a Hollywood dream sequence. I saw Chantale Trottier’s plaid jumper. Morisette-Champoux’s gutted belly. The putrefied head that was Isabelle Gagnon. A severed hand. A mangled breast cupped in bone-white lips. A lifeless monkey. A statue. A plunger. A knife.

I couldn’t help myself. I produced a cinema of death, tortured by the thought that Gabby had joined the cast. Darkness was fading into light when I got up to dress.

T
HE SUN HAD BARELY CLIMBED ABOVE THE HORIZON WHEN WE
uncovered Gabby’s body. Margot had gone directly to it, scarcely hesitating when released inside the plywood fence surrounding the property. She’d scented for a moment, then raced across the wooded lot, the saffron dawn tinging her fur and illuminating the dust around her feet.

The grave was hidden inside a crumbling house foundation. It was shallow, dug quickly, filled with haste. Standard. But then the killer had added a personal touch, outlining the burial with a carefully placed oval of bricks.

Her corpse lay on the ground now, zippered in its body bag. We’d sealed the scene with sawhorses and yellow tape, but it hadn’t been necessary. The early hour and the plywood barrier had been protection enough. No one had come to gawk as we unearthed the body and went through our macabre routines.

I sat in a patrol unit, sipping cold coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The radio cackled and the usual motion swirled around me. I’d come to do my job, to be a professional, but found I couldn’t do it. The others would have to manage. Perhaps later my brain would accept the messages it was currently rejecting. For now, I was numb and my brain was numb. I didn’t want to see her in the trench, to replay the scene of the marbled and bloated body emerging as the layers of dirt were lifted off. I’d recognized the silver earrings instantly. Ganesh. I recalled an image of Gabby explaining about the little elephant. A friendly god. A happy god. Not a god of pain and death. Where were you, Ganesh? Why didn’t you protect your friend? Why didn’t any of her friends protect her? Agony. Push it away.

I’d done a visual ID on the body, then Ryan had taken charge of the scene. I watched as he conferred with Pierre Gilbert. They spoke a moment, then Ryan turned and walked in my direction.

He hitched his pant legs and squatted next to the open car door, one hand on the armrest. Though it was only midmorning, the temperature was already twenty-seven Celsius, and perspiration soaked his hair and armpits.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

I nodded.

“I know how hard this is.”

No. You don’t. “The body isn’t too bad. I’m surprised, considering this heat.”

“We don’t know how long she’s been here.”

“Yes.”

He reached over and took my hand. His palm left a small saddle of perspiration on the vinyl armrest. “There was noth—”

“Have you found anything?”

“Not much.”

“No footprints, no tire tracks, nothing in this whole bloody field?”

He shook his head.

“Latents on the bricks?” I knew that was stupid even as I said it.

His eyes held mine.

“Nothing down in the pit?”

“There was one thing, Tempe. Lying on her chest.” He hesitated a moment. “A surgical glove.”

“A little sloppy for this guy. He never left anything before. Might be prints inside.” I was fighting for control. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think she was killed here, Tempe. She was probably transported from somewhere else.”

“What is this place?”

“A tavern that closed down years ago. The property was sold, the building was knocked down, then the buyer went belly-up. The lot’s been boarded up for six years.”

“Who owns it?”

“You want a name?”

“Yes, a name,” I snarled.

He checked his notebook. “Guy named Bailey.”

Behind him I could see two attendants lift Gabby’s remains onto a stretcher, then wheel it toward the coroner’s van.

Oh, Gabby! I’m so sorry!

“Can I get you anything?” The ice blue eyes were studying my face.

“What?”

“Do you want a drink? Something to eat? Would you like to go home?”

Yes. And never come back.

“No. I’m fine.”

For the first time I noticed the hand he’d placed over mine. The fingers were slender, but the hand itself was broad and angular. A dashed semicircle arced across his thumb knuckle.

“She wasn’t mutilated.”

“No.”

“Why the bricks?”

“I’ve never been able to understand how these mutants think.”

“It’s a taunt, isn’t it? He wanted us to find her, and he wanted to make a statement. There won’t be any prints inside the glove.”

He didn’t say anything.

“This is different, isn’t it, Ryan?”

“Yes.”

The heat in the car was like molasses against my skin. I got out and lifted my hair to feel the breeze on my neck. There was none. I watched them secure the body bag with black canvas straps and slide it into the van. I felt a sob build in my chest and fought it back.

“Could I have saved her, Ryan?”

“Could any of us have saved her? I don’t know.” He let out a deep breath and squinted up into the sun. “Weeks ago, maybe. Probably not yesterday or the day before.” He turned back and locked his gaze on me. “What I do know is we’ll get this cocksucker. He’s a dead man.”

I spotted Claudel walking toward us, carrying a plastic evidence bag. He says one thing to me and I’ll rip his goddamn lips off, I promised myself. I meant it.

“Very sorry,” Claudel mumbled, avoiding my eyes. To Ryan. “We’re about done here.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows. Claudel gave him an “over there” head signal.

My pulse quickened. “What? What did you find?” Ryan placed a hand on each of my shoulders.

I looked at the bag in Claudel’s hand. I could see a pale yellow surgical glove, dark brown stains mottling its surface. Protruding from the glove’s rim was a flat object. Rectangle. White border. Dark background. A snapshot. Ryan’s hands squeezed hard on my shoulders. I stared a question at him, already fearing the answer.

“Let’s do this later.”

“Let me see it.” I reached out a trembling hand.

Claudel hesitated, extended the bag. I took it, grasped one glove finger through the plastic, and tapped gently until the photo slid free. I reoriented the bag and stared through the plastic.

Two figures, arms entwined, hair whipping, ocean breakers rolling behind. Fear gripped me. My breathing quickened. Calm. Stay calm.

Myrtle Beach—1992. Me. Katy. The bastard had buried a picture of my daughter with my murdered friend.

No one spoke. I watched Charbonneau approach from the grave site. He joined us, looked at Ryan, who nodded. The three men stood in silence. No one knew how to act, what to say. I didn’t feel like helping them out. Charbonneau broke the silence.

“Let’s go nail this sonofabitch.”

“Got the warrant?” Ryan.

“Bertrand will meet us. They issued as soon as we found the . . . body.” He looked at me, quickly away.

“Is our boy there now?”

“No one’s gone in or out since they staked the place. I don’t think we should wait.”

“Yeah.”

Ryan turned to me. “Judge Tessier bought probable cause and cut a warrant this morning, so we’re going to bust the guy you tailed Thursday night. I’ll drop y—”

“No way, Ryan. I’m in.”

“Br—”

“In case you forgot, I just identified my best friend. She was holding a picture of me and my daughter. It may be this slimy piece of shit, or it may be some other psychopath that killed her, but I’m going to find out, and I’m going to do everything I can to fry his sorry ass. I will hunt him down and flush him out with or without you and your Merry Men.” My finger was stabbing the air like a hydraulic piston. “I will be there! Starting now!”

My eyes burned and my chest began to heave. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry. I forced calmness over my hysteria. For a long time no one spoke.

“
Allons-y
,” said Claudel. Let’s go.

B
Y NOON THE TEMPERATURE AND HUMIDITY WERE SO HIGH THE
city was rendered lifeless. Nothing moved. Trees, birds, insects, and humans held themselves as still as possible, immobilized by the stifling heat. Most stayed out of sight.

The drive was St. Jean Baptiste Day all over again. The tense silence. The smell of air-conditioned sweat. The fear in my gut. Only Claudel’s surliness was absent. He and Charbonneau were meeting us there.

And the traffic was different. On our trip to Rue Berger we had fought holiday crowds. Today we breezed through empty streets, arriving at the suspect’s place in less than twenty minutes. When we turned the corner I could see Bertrand, Charbonneau, and Claudel in an unmarked car, Bertrand’s unit parked behind. The crime scene van was at the end of the block, Gilbert behind the wheel, a tech slumped against the passenger side window.

The three detectives got out as we walked toward them. The street was as I remembered it, though daylight showed it to be even plainer and more worn than it had appeared in the dark. My shirt was pasted to my clammy skin.

“Where’s the stakeout team?” Ryan asked by way of greeting.

“They circled round back.” Charbonneau.

“He in there?”

“No activity since they got here around midnight. He could be asleep inside.”

“There’s a back entrance?”

Charbonneau nodded. “Been covered all night. We’ve got units at each end of the block, and there’s one on Martineau.” He jerked a thumb toward the opposite side of the street. “If lover boy’s in there, he’s not going anywhere.”

Ryan turned to Bertrand. “Got the paper?”

Bertrand nodded. “It’s 1436 Séguin. Number 201. Come on down.” He mimicked the game show invitation.

We stood a moment, sizing up the building as one would an adversary, preparing ourselves for assault and capture. Two black kids rounded the corner and started up the block, rap music blaring from an enormous boom box. They wore Air Jordans and pants big enough to house a nuclear family. Their T-shirts bore totems of violence, one a skull with melting eyeballs, the other the grim reaper with beach umbrella. Death on Vacation. The taller boy had shaved his scalp, leaving only an oval cap on top. The other had dreadlocks.

A mental flash of Gabby’s dreadlocks. A stab of pain.

Later. Not now. I yanked my attention back to the moment.

We watched the boys enter a nearby building, heard the rap truncated as a door closed behind them. Ryan looked in both directions, then back at us.

“We set?”

“Let’s get the sonofabitch.” Claudel.

“Luc, you and Michel cover the back. If he bolts, squash him.”

Claudel squinted, tipped his head as though to speak, then shook it, exhaling sharply through his nose. He and Charbonneau moved off, turned back at Ryan’s voice.

“We do this by the books.” His eyes were hard. “No mistakes.”

The CUM detectives crossed the street and disappeared around the graystone.

Ryan turned to me.