Deja Dead Page 0,139

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.

35

BY 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.