Deja Dead Page 0,115
the detectives. I was beginning to feel the outsider.
“So. What have you come up with?” Ryan the moderator.
“The Métro.”
“The Métro?”
“That narrows it to four million people. Two if we stick to males.”
“Let her talk, Luc.”
“What about the Métro?”
“Francine Morisette-Champoux lived six stops from the Berri-UQAM station.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Ryan shot him a look that could have cut glass.
“So did Isabelle Gagnon. And Margaret Adkins.”
“Hm.”
Claudel said nothing.
“Trottier is too far out.”
“Yes. And Damas is too close.”
“The St. Jacques apartment is a few blocks away.”
We ate in silence for a while. The fish was dry, the fries and dirty rice were greasy. Hard combination to get just right.
“It may be more complicated than simply the Métro stops.”
“Oh?”
“Francine Morisette-Champoux and her husband had their home on the market. Listed with ReMax.”
No one said anything.
“There was a sign outside Margaret Adkins’s building. ReMax.”
They waited for me to go on. I didn’t. I reached into my purse, extracted the Gagnon photos, and placed one on the table. Claudel forked a fried plantain.
Ryan picked up the photo, studied it, then looked at me quizzically. I handed him the magnifying glass and pointed to an object barely visible at the far left edge of the photo. He examined it for a long time, then, saying nothing, he extended the picture and lens across the table.
Claudel wiped his hands, wadded the paper napkin, and tossed it onto his plate. Taking the photo, he repeated Ryan’s actions. When he recognized the object his jaw muscles bunched. For a long time he stared at it, saying nothing.
“Neighbor?” Ryan asked.
“Looks like it.”
“ReMax?”
“I think so. You can just see the R and part of the E. We can get the print blown up.”
“Should be easy to track. The listing would only be four months old. Hell, in this economy it’s probably still active.” Ryan was already making notes.
“What about Damas?”
“I don’t know.” Wouldn’t want to bother a victim’s family. I didn’t say it.
“Trottier?”
“No. I talked to Chantale’s mother. She wasn’t selling. Never listed the property.”
“Could be the father.”
We both turned to Claudel. He was looking at me, and this time his voice held no condescension.
“What?” Ryan.
“She spent a lot of time at the father’s place. Could be he was selling.” Endorsement?
“I’ll check.” More notes.
“She was going there the day she was killed,” I said.
“She stayed there a couple of days every week.” Patronizing, but not contemptuous. Progress.
“Where does he live?”
“Westmount. Billion-dollar condo on Barat, off Sherbrooke.”
I tried to place that. Just over the border from Centre-ville. Not far from my condo.
“Just above the Forum?”
“Right.”
“What Métro station?”
“Must be Atwater. It’s just a couple of blocks up from there.”
Ryan looked at his watch, waved to catch Janine’s attention, then pantomimed a signature in the air. We paid, receiving handfuls of candy from Antoine.
The minute I reached my office I pulled out the map, located the Atwater station, and counted the stops to Berri-UQAM. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The phone rang as I was reaching for it.
28
ROBERT TROTTIER’S CONDO HAD BEEN LISTED FOR A YEAR AND A half.
“Guess things are slow in that price range.”
“I wouldn’t know, Ryan. I’ve never been there.”
“I’ve seen it on television.”
“ReMax?”
“Royal Lepage.”
“Ads?”
“He thinks so. We’re checking.”
“Sign outside?”
“Yes.”
“Damas?” I asked.
She, her husband, and three kids lived with his parents. The senior Damases had owned their home since dirt was invented. Would die in it.
I thought about that for a while.
“What did Grace Damas do?”
“Raised kids. Crocheted doilies for the church. Hopped around in part-time jobs. You ready for this? Once worked in a boucherie.”
“Perfect.” Who butchered the butcher?
“The husband?”
“Clean. Drives a truck.” Pause. “Like his father before him.”
Silence.
“Think it means anything?”
“The Métro or the listings?”
“Either.”
“Hell, Brennan, I don’t know.” More silence. “Give me a scenario.”
I’d been trying to concoct one.
“Okay. St. Jacques reads the real estate ads, picks an address. Then he stakes it out until he spots his victim. He stalks her, waits for his opportunity. Then the ambush.”
“How does the Métro figure in?”
Think. “It’s a sport to him. He’s the hunter, she’s the prey. The hidey-hole on Berger is his blind. He flushes her with the want ads, tracks her, then moves in for the kill. He only uses certain hunting areas.”
“The sixth stop out.”
“Got a better idea?”
“Why real estate notices?”
“Why? Vulnerable target, a woman home alone. Figures if she’s selling she’ll be there to show the property. Maybe he calls. The ad would give him an entrée.”
“Why six?”
“I don’t know. The guy’s nuts.”
Brilliant, Brennan.
“Must know the city pretty damn well.”
We chewed on that.
“Métro worker?”
“Cabby?”
“Utilities?”
“Cop?”
There was an