Deja Dead Page 0,91

on Morisette-Champoux had shocked me then and did still. The crime scene photos brought it all back.

She was lying half under a small wooden table, her arms and legs spread wide, white cotton panties stretched taught between her knees. A sea of blood surrounded her, giving way at its perimeter to the geometric pattern of the linoleum. Dark smears covered the walls and counter fronts. From off camera, the legs of an upturned chair seemed to point at her. You are here.

Her body looked ghostly white against the crimson background. A pencil-thin line looped across her abdomen, a happy-face smile just above her pubis. She was slit from this scar upward to her breastbone, and her innards protruded from the opening. The handle of a kitchen knife was barely visible at the apex of the triangle formed by her legs. Five feet from her, between a work island and the sink, lay her right hand. She’d been forty-seven years old.

“Jesus,” I whispered softly.

I was picking my way through the autopsy report when Charbonneau appeared in my doorway. I guessed his mood was not congenial. His eyes looked bloodshot and he didn’t bother with greetings. He entered without asking and took the chair opposite my desk.

Watching him, I felt a momentary sense of loss. The lumbering walk, the looseness in his movement, just the largeness of him touched something I thought I’d abandoned. Or been abandoned by.

For a moment I saw Pete sitting across from me, and my mind flew backward in time. What an intoxicant his body had been. I never knew if it was his size, or the relaxed way he had of moving it. Maybe it was his fascination with me. That had seemed genuine. I could never get enough of him. I’d had sexual fantasies, damn good ones, but from the moment I saw him standing in the rain outside the law library they’d always involved Pete. I could use one right now, I thought. Jesus, Brennan. Get a grip. I snapped back to the present.

I waited for Charbonneau to begin. He was staring down at his hands.

“My partner can be a sonofabitch.” He spoke in English. “But he’s not a bad guy.”

I didn’t respond. I noticed that his pants had four-inch hems, hand sewn, and wondered if he’d done the job himself.

“He’s just—set in his ways. Doesn’t like change.”

“Yes.”

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. I felt unease.

“And?” I encouraged.

He leaned back and picked at a thumbnail, still avoiding eye contact. From a radio down the hall Roch Voisine sang softly of Hélène.

“He says he’s going to file a complaint.” He dropped both hands and shifted his gaze to the window.

“A complaint?” I tried to keep my voice flat.

“With the minister. And the director. And LaManche. He’s even looking up your professional board.”

“And what is Monsieur Claudel unhappy about?” Stay calm.

“He says you’re overstepping your bounds. Interfering in stuff you got no business in. Messing up his investigation.” He squinted into the bright sunlight.

I felt my stomach muscles tighten, and a hotness spread upward.

“Go on.” Flat.

“He thinks you’re . . .” He fumbled for a word, no doubt seeking a substitute for the one Claudel had actually used. “. . . overreaching.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

He still avoided eye contact.

“He says you’re trying to make the Gagnon case into a bigger deal than it really is, seeing all kinds of shit that isn’t there. He says you’re trying to turn a simple murder into an American-style psycho extravaganza.”

“And why am I trying to do that?” My voice wavered slightly.

“Shit, Brennan, this isn’t my idea. I don’t know.” For the first time his eyes met mine. He looked miserable. It was obvious he didn’t want to be there.

I stared back, not really seeing him, just using the time to quell the alarm call going out to my adrenals. I had some idea of the type of inquiry a letter of complaint could set in motion, and I knew it wouldn’t be good. I’d investigated such charges when I sat on the board’s ethics committee. Regardless of outcome, it was never pretty. Neither of us spoke.

“Hélène the things you do. Make me crazy ’bout you,” crooned the radio.

Don’t kill the messenger, I told myself. My eyes dropped to the dossier on my desk. A body with skin the color of milk reproduced in a dozen glossy rectangles. I considered the photos, then looked at Charbonneau. I hadn’t wanted to broach this yet, didn’t feel ready, but Claudel was forcing