Deja Dead Page 0,116
interval of tense silence.
“Brennan, I wouldn—”
“No.”
“What about Trottier and Damas? They don’t fit.”
“No.”
Silence.
“Gagnon was found in Centre-ville, Damas in St. Lambert, Trottier in St. Jerome. If our boy’s a commuter, how does he handle that?”
“I don’t know, Ryan. But it’s four for five on both the ads and the Métro stops. Look at St. Jacques, or whoever this rodent is. His hole is right at Berri-UQAM, and he collected want ads. It’s worth some follow-up.”
“Yep.”
“Might start with the St. Jacques collection, see what the guy saved.”
“Yep.”
Another thought occurred to me.
“What about profiling? We’ve got enough to give it a try now.”
“Very trendy.”
“Could help.”
I could read his thoughts across the line.
“Claudel doesn’t have to know. I could poke around unofficially, find out if it’s worth pursuing. We’ve got crime scenes for Morisette-Champoux and Adkins, manner of death and body disposal for the others. I think they can work with that.”
“Quantico?”
“Yeah.”
He snorted. “Right. They’re so backed up they won’t return your call until the turn of the century.”
“I know someone there.”
“I’m sure you do.” Sigh. “Why not. But just an inquiry at this point. Don’t go committing us to anything. The request will have to come from Claudel or me.”
A minute later I was dialing a Virginia area code. I asked for John Samuel Dobzhansky and waited. Mr. Dobzhansky was unavailable. I left a message.
I tried Parker Bailey. Another secretary, another message.
I called Gabby to find out her dinner plans. My own voice asked for a message.
Called Katy. Message.
Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?
I spent the rest of the afternoon on correspondence and student recommendations, listening for the phone. I wanted to talk to Dobzhansky. I wanted to talk to Bailey. A clock ticked inside my head, making it hard to concentrate. Countdown. How long until the next victim? At five I gave up and went home.
The condo was silent. No Birdie. No Gabby.
“Gab?” Maybe she was napping.
The guest room door was still closed. Birdie was asleep on my bed.
“You two really have it rough.” I stroked his head. “Whoo. Time to clean your pan.” The odor was noticeable.
“Too much on my mind, Bird. Sorry.”
No acknowledgment.
“Where’s Gabby?”
Blank stare. Stretch.
I replaced the litter. Birdie acknowledged by using it, pawing a large portion onto the floor.
“Come on, Bird, try to keep it in the pan. Gabby’s not the neatest bathroom mate, but do your part.” I looked at her jumble of cleansers and cosmetics. “I think she cleaned up a little.”
I got a Diet Coke and changed into cutoffs. Plan dinner? Who was I kidding. We’d go out.
The answering machine blinked. One message. Me. I’d called around one. Hadn’t Gabby heard it? Had she ignored it? Maybe she’d turned the phone off. Maybe she was sick. Maybe she wasn’t here. I went to her door.
“Gab?”
I knocked softly.
“Gabby?”
Harder.
I opened the door and looked in. The usual Gabby mess. Jewelry. Papers. Books. Clothes everywhere. A bra hung from the back of a chair. I checked the closet. Shoes and sandals tossed in heaps. Amid it all, the neatly made bed. The incongruity of it struck me.
“Sonofabitch.”
Birdie slithered past my legs.
“Was she here at all last night?”
He looked at me, jumped to the bed, circled twice, and settled. I dropped next to him, the familiar knot tightening in my stomach.
“She’s done it again, Bird.”
He spread his toes and began to lick.
“Not so much as a stinking note.”
Birdie focused on inter-toe spaces.
“I will not think about this.” I went to unload the dishwasher.
Ten minutes later I had calmed enough to dial her number. No answer. Of course. I tried the university. No answer.
I wandered into the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator. Closed it. Dinner? Reopened it. Diet Coke. Wandered to the living room, set the new Coke next to the earlier can, clicked on the TV, surfed the channels, chose a sitcom I wouldn’t watch. My mind raced from the murders to Gabby to my garden skull and back, unable to fix on anything. The cadence of dialogue and canned laughter provided background noise as my thoughts bounced around like atomic particles.
Anger at Gabby. Resentment at letting myself be used. Hurt that she would do it. Apprehension about her safety. Fear for a new victim. Frustration over my helplessness. I felt emotionally bruised, but couldn’t stop beating myself.
I’m not sure how long I’d been there when the phone rang, the sound sending adrenaline pouring from wherever it rooms when not on duty.
Gabby!
“Hello.”
“Tempe Brennan, please.” A male voice. Familiar as my Midwest childhood.
“J.S.! God, am I glad to hear