Deja Dead Page 0,141

his voice tense, just above a whisper. “That asshole may be in there and we’ve got an unattended kid here.”

Mathieu watched like a barn cat with a cornered rat, his eyes never leaving Ryan’s face.

“Monsieur Tanguay’s not here.”

“Are you sure?” Ryan crouched again.

“He’s gone away.”

“Where?”

Another shrug. A chubby finger pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“How do you know he’s away?”

“I’m taking care of his fish.” A smile the size of the Mississippi lit his face. “He’s got tetras, and angelfish, and white clouds.” He used the English names. “They’re fantastic!” Fantastique! Such a perfect word. Its English counterpart never quite matches it.

“When will Monsieur Tanguay be back?”

Shrug.

“Did Grammama write it on the calendar?” I asked.

The child regarded me, surprised, then disappeared as he had before.

“What calendar?” Ryan asked, looking up.

“They must keep one. He went to check something when he wasn’t sure when Grammama would be home today.”

Mathieu returned. “Nope.”

Ryan stood. “Now what?”

“If he’s right, we go in and toss the place. We’ve got a name, we’ll run Monsieur Tanguay down. Maybe Grammama knows where he’s gone. If not, we’ll pop him as soon as he comes anywhere near here.”

Ryan looked to Bertrand, pointed at the door.

Five more raps.

Nothing.

“Break it?” asked Bertrand.

“Monsieur Tanguay won’t like it.”

We all looked at the boy.

Ryan lowered himself a third time.

“He gets really mad if you do something bad,” said Mathieu.

“It’s important that we look for something in Monsieur Tanguay’s apartment,” explained Ryan.

“He won’t like it if you break his door.”

I squatted next to Ryan.

“Mathieu, do you have Monsieur Tanguay’s fish in your apartment?”

Head shake.

“Do you have a key to Monsieur Tanguay’s apartment?”

Mathieu nodded.

“Could you let us in?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t come out when Grammama’s gone.”

“That’s good, Mathieu. Grammama wants you to stay inside because she thinks it’s safer for you. She’s right, and you’re a good boy to listen to her.”

The Mississippi smile spread north again.

“Do you think we could use the key, Mathieu, just for a few minutes? It’s very important police business and you are correct that we shouldn’t break the door.”

“I guess that would be okay,” he said. “Because you’re police.”

Mathieu darted out of sight, returned with a key. He pressed his lips together and looked straight at me as he held it through the crack.

“Don’t break Monsieur Tanguay’s door.”

“We’ll be very careful.”

“And don’t go in the kitchen. That’s bad. You can’t ever go in the kitchen.”

“You close the door and stay inside, Mathieu. I’ll knock when we’ve finished. Don’t open the door until you hear my knock.”

The small face nodded solemnly, then disappeared behind the door.

We rejoined Bertrand, who knocked again, called out. There was an awkward pause, then Ryan nodded, and I slipped the key into the lock.

The door opened directly into a small living room, its color scheme shades of maroon. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling on two sides, the other walls were wood, every surface darkened by years of varnishing. Crushed red velvet looped across the windows, backed by grayinglace, which blocked most of the sunlight. We stood absolutely still, listening and peering into the unlit room.

The only sound I heard was a faint buzzing, erratic, like electricity jumping a broken circuit. Bzzt. Bzzzzzt. Bzt. Bzt. It came from behind double doors ahead and to the left. Otherwise, the place was deathly quiet.

Poor choice of adverb, Brennan.

I looked around and furniture shapes emerged from the deep shadow, looking old and worn. The center of the room was occupied by a carved wooden table with matching chairs. A well-used couch sagged in the front bay, a Mexican blanket stretched across it. Opposite, a wooden trunk served as a stand for a Sony Trinitron.

Scattered about the room were small wooden tables and cabinets. Some were quite nice, not unlike pieces I’d unearthed at flea markets. I doubted any of these had been afternoon finds, purchased as bargains to strip and refinish. They looked as though they’d been in the place for years, ignored and unappreciated as successive tenants came and went.

The floor was covered by an aging dhurrie. And plants. Everywhere. They were tucked in corners and strung along baseboards and hung from hooks. What the occupant lacked in furnishings, he’d made up for in greenery. Plants dangled from wall brackets and rested on windowsills, tabletops, sideboards, and shelves.

“Looks like a fucking botanical garden,” said Bertrand.

And smells, I thought. A musty odor permeated the air, a blend of fungus, and leaves, and damp earth.

Across from the main entrance a short hall led to a single closed