Deja Dead Page 0,150

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