Deja Dead Page 0,51

starting a second search when the crime scene van pulled up in front.

“Where the fuck have you been?” asked Claudel as they came through the door with their metal cases.

“It’s like driving through Woodstock out there,” said Pierre Gilbert, “only less mud.” His round face was completely encircled by curly beard and curlier hair, reminding me of a Roman god. I could never remember which one. “What’ve we got here?”

“Girl killed over on Desjardins? Pussbag that lifted her card calls this little hole home,” said Claudel. “Maybe.”

He indicated the room with a sweep of his arm. “Put a lot of himself into it.”

“Well, we’ll take it out,” said Gilbert with a smile. His hair was clinging in circles to his wet forehead. “Let’s dust.”

“There’s a basement, too.”

“Oui.” Save for the inflection, dropping then rising, it sounded more like a question than an assent. Whyyyy?

“Claude, why don’t you start down below? Marcie, take the counter back there.”

Marcie moved to the back of the room, removed a canister from her metal suitcase, and began brushing black powder on the Formica counter. The other technician headed downstairs. Pierre put on latex gloves and began removing sections of newspaper from the desktop and placing them in a large plastic sack. It was then I had my final shock of the day.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he said, lifting a small square from what had been the middle of the stack. He studied it a long time. “C’est toi?”

I was surprised to see him look at me.

Wordlessly I walked over and glanced at what he had. I was unnerved to see my own familiar jeans, my “Absolutely Irish” T-shirt, my Bausch and Lomb aviator sunglasses. In his gloved hand he held the photo which had appeared in Le Journal that morning.

For the second time that day I saw myself locked at an exhumation two years in the past. The picture had been cut and trimmed with the same careful precision as those on the wall. It differed in only one respect. My image had been circled and recircled in pen, and the front of my chest was marked with a large X.

12

ISLEPT A LOT OF THE WEEKEND. SATURDAY MORNING I HAD TRIED getting up, but that was short-lived. My legs trembled, and if I turned my head long fingers of pain shot up my neck and grabbed the base of my skull. My face had crusted over like crème brûlée, and my right eye looked like a purple plum gone bad. It was a weekend of soup, aspirin, and antiseptic. I spent the days dozing on the couch, keeping abreast of O. J. Simpson’s escapades. At night I was asleep by nine.

By Monday the jackhammer had stopped pounding inside my cranium. I could walk stiffly and rotate my head somewhat. I got up early, showered, and was in my office by eighty-thirty.

There were three requisitions on my desk. Ignoring them, I tried Gabby’s number, but got only her machine. I made myself a cup of instant coffee and uncurled the phone messages I’d taken from my slot. One was from a detective in Verdun, another from Andrew Ryan, the third a reporter. I threw the last away and set the others by the phone. Neither Charbonneau nor Claudel had called. Nor had Gabby.

I dialed the CUM squad room and asked for Charbonneau. After a pause I was told he wasn’t there. Neither was Claudel. I left a message, wondering if they were out on the street early or starting the day late.

I dialed Andrew Ryan but his line was busy. Since I was accomplishing nothing by phone, I decided to drop by in person. Maybe Ryan would discuss Trottier.

I rode the elevator to the first floor and wound my way back to the squad room. The scene was much livelier than during my last visit. As I crossed to Ryan’s desk I could feel eyes on my face. It made me vaguely uncomfortable. Obviously they knew about Friday.

“Dr. Brennan,” said Ryan in English, unfolding from his chair and extending a hand. His elongated face broke into a smile when he saw the scab that was my right cheek. “Trying out a new shade of blush?”

“Right. Crimson cement. I got a message you called?”

For a moment he looked blank.

“Oh yeah. I pulled the jacket on Trottier. You can take a look if you want.”

He leaned over and fiddled with some folders on his desk, spreading them out in a fan-shaped heap. He selected one and handed it to