37

IGOT HOME ABOUT FIVE-THIRTY AND SAT IN THE SILENCE OF THE apartment, assessing what else I could do. Nothing. Ryan was right. Tanguay could be out there, waiting for his chance at me. I wouldn’t make it easier for him.

But I had to eat. And keep busy.

As I let myself out the front door, I scanned the street. There. In the alley to the left of the pizza parlor. I nodded to the two uniforms and pointed in the direction of Ste. Catherine. I could see them confer, then one got out.

My street crosses Ste. Catherine, not far from Le Faubourg. As I walked toward the market I could sense the annoyance of the cop on my tail. No matter. The day was glorious. I hadn’t noticed at the lab. The heat had broken and huge white clouds floated in a dazzling blue sky, casting islands of shadow over the day and its players. It felt good to be outside.

Veggies. At La Plantation I squeezed avocados, evaluated the color of bananas, chose broccoli, brussels sprouts, and baking potatoes with the concentration of a neurosurgeon. A baguette at the boulangerie. A chocolate mousse at the pâtisserie. I picked up pork chops, ground beef, and a tourtière at the boucherie.

“C’est tout?”

“No, what the hell. Give me a T-bone. Really thick.” I held my thumb and index finger an inch apart.

As I watched him remove the saw from its hook, the cognitive itch began again. I tried to scratch it into a full-blown idea, but with no more success than I’d had before. The saw? Too obvious. Anyone can buy a chef’s saw. The SQ had run that lead to a dead end, contacting every outlet in the province. Thousands had been sold.

What, then? I’d learned that trying to pry an idea out of the subconscious only drives it deeper. If I let it drift, eventually it will float to the surface. I paid for my meat and went home, with a brief detour at the Rue Ste. Catherine Burger King.

What greeted me was the last thing I wanted to see. Someone had called. For several minutes I sat on the edge of the couch, clutching my packages and staring at the tiny indicator light. One message. Was it Tanguay? Would he speak to me, or would I hear the sound of his listening, followed by a dial tone?

“You’re being hysterical, Brennan. It’s probably Ryan.”

I dried my palm, reached out, and pushed the button. It wasn’t Tanguay. It was worse.

“Hey, Mom. Y’all out having a good time? Hello? Are you there? Pick u-up.” I could hear what sounded like traffic, as if she were calling from an outside phone. “Guess not. Well, I can’t talk anyway. I’m on the road. On the road again . . .” She did a Willie Nelson imitation. “Pretty good, eh? Anyway, I’m coming to visit, Mom. You’re right. Max is a pecker head. I don’t need that.” I heard a voice in the background. “Okay, just give me a minute,” she said to whoever it was. “Listen, I got a chance to visit New York. The Big Apple. I hooked a free trip, so here I am. Anyway, I can get a ride to Montreal, so I’m coming up. See you soon!”

Click.

“No! Don’t come here, Katy. No!” I spoke to the empty air.

I listened to the tape rewind. Jesus, what a nightmare! Gabby is dead. A psychopath placed a picture of Katy and me in her grave. Now Katy is on her way here. Blood pounded in my temples. My mind raced. I have to stop her. How? I don’t know where she is.

Pete.

As his phone rang I had a flashback. Katy at three. At the park. I was talking to another mother, my eyes on Katy as she poured sand into plastic containers. Suddenly, she dropped her shovel and ran to the swings. She hesitated a moment, watching the iron pony swing back, then ran to it, her face exuberant with the feel of spring and the sight of the colorful mane and bridle moving through the air. I knew it would hit her and I could not stop it. It was happening again.

No answer on Pete’s direct line.

I tried his switchboard number. A secretary told me he was away, taking a deposition. Of course. I left a message.

I stared at the answering machine. I shut my eyes and took several long, deep breaths, willing my heart to a slower pace. The back of my head felt as though it were clamped in a vise, and I was hot all over.

“This will not happen.”

I opened my eyes to see Birdie gazing at me from across the room.

“This will not happen,” I repeated to him.

He stared, his yellow eyes unblinking.

“I can do something.”

He arched, placed all four paws in a tight little square, curled his tail, and sat, his eyes never leaving my face.

“I will do something. I will not just sit around and wait for this fiend to pounce. Not on my daughter.”

I took the groceries to the kitchen and placed them in the refrigerator. Then I got out my laptop, logged in, and pulled up the spreadsheet. How long had it been since I’d started it? I checked the dates I’d entered. Isabelle Gagnon’s body was found on June 2. Seven weeks. It seemed like seven years.

I went to the study and brought out my case files. Maybe the effort I’d spent photocopying wouldn’t be wasted after all.

For the next two hours I scrutinized every photograph, every name, every date, literally every word in every interview and police report I had. Then I did it again. I went over and over the words, hoping to find some little thing I’d missed. The third time through I did.

I was reading Ryan’s interview with Grace Damas’s father when I noticed it. Like a sneeze that’s been building, taunting but refusing to break, the message finally burst into my conscious thought.

A boucherie. Grace Damas had worked at a boucherie. The killer used a chef’s saw, knew something about anatomy. Tanguay dissected animals. Maybe there was a link. I looked for the name of the boucherie but couldn’t find it.

I dialed the number in the file. A man answered.

“Mr. Damas?”

“Yes.” Accented English.

“I’m Dr. Brennan. I’m working on the investigation of your wife’s death. I wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

“Yes.”

“At the time she disappeared, was your wife working outside the home?”

Pause. Then, “Yes.”

I could hear a television in the background.

“May I ask where, please?”

“A bakery on Fairmont. Le Bon Croissant. It was just part time. She never worked full time, with the kids and all.”

I thought that over. So much for my link.

“How long had she worked there, Mr. Damas?” I hid my disappointment.

“Just a few months, I think. Grace never lasted anywheres very long.”

“Where did she work before that?” I dogged on.

“A boucherie.”

“Which one?” I held my breath.

“La Boucherie St. Dominique. Belongs to a man in our parish. It’s over on St. Dominique, just off St. Laurent, ya know?”

Yes. I pictured the rain against its windows.

“When did she work there?” I kept my voice calm.

“Almost a year, I guess. Most of ’91, seems like. I can check. Think it’s important? They never asked nothing about the dates before.”

“I’m not sure. Mr. Damas, did your wife ever speak of someone named Tanguay?”

“Who?” Harsh.

“Tanguay.”

An announcer’s voice promised he’d be right back after the commercial break. My head throbbed and a dry scratching was beginning in my throat.

“No.”

The vehemence startled me.

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll let you know if there are any new developments.”

I hung up and phoned Ryan. He’d left for the day. I tried his home number. No answer. I knew what I had to do. I made one call, picked up a key, and headed out.

 

La Boucherie St. Dominique was busier than the day I’d first noticed it. The same signs occupied its windows, but tonight the store was lit and open for business. There wasn’t much. An old woman moved slowly down the glass case, her face flaccid in the fluorescent glare. I watched her double back and point to a rabbit. The stiff little carcass reminded me of Tanguay’s sad collection. And Alsa.

I waited until the woman left, then approached the man behind the counter. His face was rectangular, the bones large, the features coarse. The arms that hung from his T-shirt looked surprisingly thin and sinewy in contrast. Dark splotches marred the white of his apron, like dried petals on a linen tablecloth.

“Bonjour.”

“Bonjour.”

“Slow tonight?”

“It’s slow every night.” English, accented like Damas’s.

I could hear someone rattling utensils in a back room.

“I’m working on the Grace Damas murder investigation.” I pulled out my ID and flashed it. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

The man stared at me. In the back, a faucet went on, off.

“Are you the owner?”

Nod.

“Mr.?”

“Plevritis.”

“Mr. Plevritis, Grace Damas worked here for a short time, did she not?”

“Who?”

“Grace Damas. Fellow parishioner at St. Demetrius? ”

The scrawny arms folded across his chest. Nod.

“When was that?”

“About three, four years ago. I don’t know exactly. They come and go.”

“Did she quit?”

“Without notice.”

“Why was that?”

“Hell if I know. Everyone was doing it about then.”

“Did she seem unhappy, upset, nervous?”

“What do I look like, Sigmund Freud?”

“Did she have any friends here, anyone she was particularly close to?”

His eyes lighted on mine and a smile teased the corners of his mouth. “Close?” he asked, his voice oily as Valvoline. I returned his gaze, unsmiling.

The smile disappeared and his eyes left mine to wander the room.

“It’s just me and my brother here. There’s no one to get close with.” He drew the word out, like an adolescent with a dirty joke.

“Did she have any peculiar visitors, anyone who might have been hassling her?”

“Look, I gave her a job. I told her what to do and she did it. I didn’t keep track of her social life.”

“I thought perhaps you might have noticed—”

“Grace was a good worker. I was mad as hell when she quit. Everyone splitting at the same time really left me with my nuts in a vise, so I was pissed. I admit it. But I don’t hold a grudge. Later, when I heard she was missing, at church, ya know, I thought she’d taken off. Didn’t really seem like her, but her old man can be pretty heavy sometimes. I’m sorry she got killed. But I really hardly remember her.”

“What do you mean ‘heavy’?”

A blank expression crossed his face, like a sluice gate dropping. He lowered his eyes and scratched with his thumbnail at something on the counter. “You’ll have to talk to Nikos about that. That’s family.”

I could see what Ryan meant. Now what? Visual aids. I reached in my purse and pulled out the picture of St. Jacques.

“Ever see this guy?”

Plevritis leaned forward to take it. “Who is he?”

“Neighbor of yours.”

He studied the face. “Not exactly a prizewinning photo.”

“It was taken by a video camera.”

“So was the Zapruder film, but at least you could see something.”

I wondered at his reference but said nothing. Spare me another conspiracy buff. Then I saw something cross his face, a subtle squint that puckered then flattened his lower lids.

“What?”

“Well . . .” He stared at the photo.

“Yes?”

“This guy looks a little like the other shitrag that bailed on me. But maybe that’s because you put me in mind of him with all your questions. Hell, I don’t know.” He thrust the picture across the counter at me. “I gotta close up.”

“Who? Who was that?”

“Look, it’s a lousy picture. Looks like a lot of guys with bad hair. Don’t mean nothing.”

“What did you mean, someone else bailed on you? When?”

“That’s why I was so cheesed off about Grace. The guy I had before her quit without so much as a good-bye, then Grace takes a walk, then not long after that this other guy. He and Grace were part-timers, but they were the only help I had. My brother was down in the States and I was running this place all by myself that year.”

“Who was he?”

“Fortier. Lemme think. Leo. Leo Fortier. I remember ‘cause I got a cousin named Leo.”

“He worked here at the same time Grace Damas did?”

“Yeah. I hired him to replace the guy quit just before Grace started. I figured with two part-timers to split the hours, in case one didn’t come in, I’d only be short-handed half the day. Then they both left. Tabernac, that was a mess. Fortier worked here maybe a year, year and a half, then just stopped coming. Never even turned in his keys. I had to start back at zero. I don’t want to go through that again.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“That’s an easy one. Nothing. He saw my sign, walked in off the street wanting to work part time. He fit in where I needed him, early morning to open, late night for closing and clean up, and he had experience cutting up meat. Turned out to be real good, actually. Anyway, I hired him. He had some other kind of job during the day. He seemed okay. Real quiet. Did his work, never opened his mouth. Hell, I never even knew where he lived.”

“How did he and Grace get along.”

“Hell if I know. He’d be gone when she came in, then he’d come back after she’d left for the day. I’m not sure they even knew each other.”

“And you think the man in this picture looks like Fortier?”

“Him and every other guy with bad hair and an attitude about it.”

“Do you know where Fortier is now?”

He shook his head.

“You know anyone named St. Jacques?”

“Nope.”

“Tanguay?”

“Sounds like a bronzer for queers.”

My head was pounding and my throat was starting to scratch. I left my card.