34

THE 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.