“Birdie,” I hissed. “Come here.”
The cat kept staring.
“Bird.” I reached out a hand. It was shaking.
Birdie took a tentative step toward the window, nose up and twitching, instincts roused by the unfamiliar scent of outdoors.
Keeping low, I duckwalked across the room, scooped and pressed the cat to my chest, then strained for further sounds. Did I sense another presence in the condo?
My ears picked up nothing but Birdie’s breathing and my own racing heart.
As my vitals normalized, questions ricocheted in my head.
What the hell had just happened? An explosion in the restaurant across the alley? A collision in the street?
Had someone fired a missile? A cherry bomb? A bottle rocket?
Who?
Kids, drunk or stoned or simply careless?
Or had my window just taken a bullet? If so, had the shooting been accidental? A random drive-by?
Had the hit been intentional, the barrel aimed specifically at me?
Probably not, or the shooter had very poor aim.
To intimidate?
Sparky?
Was my neighbor escalating his campaign to oust me from the building?
Sudden recollection. Go home damn American!!
Was the letter from Sparky? Someone more dangerous? Should I have taken the message more seriously? Was the sender a genuine threat?
Why had I refused to discuss the issue with Ryan?
Simple. I’d traveled that road. I knew Ryan would kick into gear and tag me with round-the-clock guards. Or a listening device on my bedside lamp. Or an ankle bracelet that sounded an alarm if I raised my voice.
Had Ryan’s tossed-off suggestion been right? Had the letter writer also placed the call to Edward Allen Jurmain?
Sparky?
Someone more malevolent?
Professional slander.
Hate mail.
Incoming projectiles.
Were the caller, the sender, and the window blaster one and the same?
I picked up the phone and dialed 911.
* * *
A unit showed up within minutes. The cops listened, dutifully checked the window, made a few notes. Then we all went outside.
Broken glass littered the lawn, but there wasn’t a bullet casing or spent rocket in sight. We agreed on a probable point of origin, a cement ledge behind a pizza parlor across the alley. The spot is a popular hangout for kids and street people.
The cops were aware that I knew the drill, didn’t try to fool me. Property damage, no personal injury. The skirmish would receive the same level of attention as a snatched pair of panties.
Unless I turned up dead in the immediate future. Then the incident would be investigated to Yonkers and back.
When the cops left I went to the basement for a piece of the plywood Winston keeps on hand. This has happened to me before, though with somewhat less flair.
I’d barely wedged a patch into place when Ryan called. The man’s network makes the CIA look amateur. Nifty if you need info. Annoying when you’re the gossip traded.
I assured Ryan I was fine.
“You think it’s this dickhead neighbor of yours?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who else have you pissed off?”
I used silence as an answer.
“You there?”
“I’m here.”
“Got any theories?”
“Kids with fireworks.”
“Got any other theories?”
I reminded him of the letter, and granted that maybe, just maybe, he could be right concerning Edward Allen’s informant. I’ll give it to him; he didn’t say I told you so.
“What do you intend to do?” he asked.
“Fix the window,” I said.
“I could be there in ten minutes.”
“I’m good.”
There was a brief pause. Then, “I found something.”
I suspected the segue was another shot at a foot in my door.
“I ran Red O’Keefe’s name against the Villejoin and Jurmain files. Got nothing. Then I tried the aliases.”
Ryan paused for effect. I waited.
“The Villejoins paid for everything by cash or money order, and recorded expenditures in a ledger. Unfortunately, they didn’t bother with dates. But around the time of Anne-Isabelle’s murder, a handyman removed a dead pine from the sisters’ backyard. The entry appears as a one-hundred-fifty-dollar payment to one M. Keith.”
“You’re thinking it’s Bud Keith.” In French, Monsieur is abbreviated M. Monsieur Keith. Aka Red O’Keefe. “That could be huge.”
“Could be.”
* * *
That night I tossed and turned for a very long time. It wasn’t just the window. Questions bombarded me from all cardinal points.
You know how you play games when you can’t fall asleep? I envisioned four columns, similar to the three I’d created for Jurmain, the Villejoins, and Keiser. I even titled them. Mentally.
The Grudge. The Gouvrards. The Grannies. The Gloom.
Adrenaline-buzzed, my mind ping-ponged among them.
The Grudge: Though Ryan’s comment had irked me, I had to admit his reaction was plausible. The letter. The accusation. Perhaps the assault on my window. Clearly, I’d pissed someone off.
Who? What was the gripe? How could I smoke the rodent from his hole?
The Gouvrards: The Lac Saint-Jean bones were in wretched condition. The antemortem records were useless, given what had been recovered. At least for the adults and the older child. There’d been so many interruptions I’d yet to read little Valentin’s file.
Were the vics in my lab actually the Gouvrards? Would the degraded bone yield anything that could be sequenced? Could an appropriate relative be located? Without DNA, how would I resolve the issue?
The Grannies: In the past three years, four elderly women had rolled into the morgue, one fresh, two skeletal, one burned and decomposed. Though cause of death was unclear for Rose Jurmain and Marilyn Keiser, unquestionably Christelle and Anne-Isabelle Villejoin had been murdered.
Why such abuse of the old and frail? By whom? Red O’Keefe–Bud Keith? If so, what could I do to help nail his ass? Was O’Keefe–Keith responsible for more killings?
Did Myron Pinsker fit into the mix? Marilyn Keiser’s daughter or son, Mona or Otto? How? If not a family member, who had cashed Keiser’s pension checks?
If the deaths were linked, would it happen again? Was a predator out there even now, prepared to kill? What could I do to prevent that, to protect other old ladies?
I thought about murder in general. With each passing year the violence seemed to increase in frequency and decrease in rationality. People were shot for handing out pink slips, for taking too long to bag burgers, for driving too slowly or following too close.
My four grannies had all been murdered, I could feel it in my gut. For what? By whom? I wanted the situation to make sense, but it didn’t.
The Gloom: Normally, I’d have sought counsel from my coworkers. But the mood at the lab was tense and unreceptive. LaManche was ill. Joe was sulking. Hubert was angry. Santangelo was leaving, and I didn’t even know why. Ayers was acting cool and aloof. Briel’s unrelenting pressuring was inexplicably grating.
On and on. Over and over. Faces. Names. Rose Jurmain. Anne-Isabelle and Christelle Villejoin. Marilyn Keiser. Myron Pinsker. Florian Grellier. Red O’Keefe–Bud Keith. Sparky Monteil. Achille, Vivienne, Serge, and Valentin Gouvrard.
The glowing orange digits said 1:15, then 2:18, 2:43, 3:06.
Then the alarm was chirping.
In a fog, I rolled over and palm-smacked the button.
The next sound I heard was a ringing phone.
Groggy, I reached out and dragged the handset to my ear. Clicked on.
“Mm.”
“You OK?” Ryan.
“Dandy.”
“Just checking.”
“Jesus, Ryan.” Si
tting upright. “What time is it?”
“Ten fifteen.”
I checked the clock.
“Shit!”
“You coming in? I’ve got some more—”
“Thirty minutes.”
Flying across the room, I yanked undies from the bureau, then threw on yesterday’s jeans and sweater. In the bathroom I had a thirty-second moment with the Sonicare, splashed water on my face, yanked my hair into a pony, and bolted.
25
I MISSED STAFF MEETING BY ALMOST TWO HOURS. ON the erasable board, the square by Morin’s name said Témoignage. Testimony. I wondered if it was the same trial for which Ryan had been subpoenaed.
Sprinting down the hall, I happened to glance to my right. Natalie Ayers’s door was ajar. She was at her desk.
My first reaction was surprise. Normally the pathologists were downstairs by that time of morning.
It took a moment for details to register.
Ayers was sitting with elbows on the desktop, shoulders hunched, head hanging between upraised hands. Discarded tissues littered the blotter.
Reversing, I gently pushed the door inward.
“Natalie?”
Ayers’s head snapped up.
I looked into eyes that were red and swollen.
“Has something happened?”
Ayers shook her head, tried faking a smile. It was a lame attempt.
“What is it?” I prodded.
The teary eyes drifted over my shoulder out into the hall.
Without waiting for an answer, I closed the door, took a chair, and assumed a listening posture. Message: I’m here until you talk.
Ayers drew a shaky breath. Plucked a clean tissue. Leaned back.
“I screwed up on Keiser.”
I wiggled my fingers. Give me more.
“The poor woman was shot.” Ayers’s mascara was everywhere, her face an ink drawing left under a tap.
“Go on.”
“I checked the X-rays, looked for exit and entrance wounds, fragments, you know the routine. There wasn’t a single indication of a gunshot wound. Nothing. Nada.”
I nodded.
“She must have been rising up, or maybe doubling over to protect herself. The bullet was small caliber, entered at the shoulder, ran longitudinally down the right erector mass, and exited without nicking a bone or organ. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You snagged the track by making cross-sectional cuts?”
“I didn’t snag anything.” Ayers swallowed. “Wonder girl found it.”
“Briel?” I masked my surprise poorly.
Ayers nodded, causing tears to breach her lower lids. She jabbed the wadded tissue at her cheeks.
“When?”
“During her pajama-party autopsy session last night.”
“You gave her permission to examine Keiser?”
Ayers nodded. “I figured hell, why not? She’s an eager beaver, wants to learn.”
“Did Briel report the discovery to you?”
Ayers snorted her contempt. “How would that advance her precious career?”
“She went straight to Hubert?”
“What do you think?”
I thought she probably had.
“And get this. Hubert’s given her permission to speak to the press.”
“When?”
“Tonight.” She told me the name of the show. I’d heard of it, but never watched it. “Should make for great viewing. They’ll probably sell the movie rights.”
“How did the media learn Keiser had been found?”
Ayers shrugged both shoulders while blowing her nose hard.
“Why would Hubert allow Briel to go on air?”
Ayers flapped her tissue-free hand. “You’ve been away. You don’t understand. The Keiser and Villejoin investigations have been going nowhere. The cops and the coroner have been taking heat. Finding Keiser makes everyone look like they’re working hard.”
“Sonovabitch,” I said.
“Sonovabackstabbingupyoursbitch.”
Back in my office, I sat motionless, tiny wings fluttering in my brainpan. My lower centers were trying to snag my attention. Why? What word or name had triggered the feeling?
Briel? Keiser? Hubert? Media? Gunshot wound?
Hard as I coaxed, the moth-notion refused to venture into the light of conscious thought.
I was still swinging mental nets when my desk phone shrilled.
Ryan skipped the preliminaries.
“Want to meet O’Keefe?”
I drew a blank.
“Earth to Brennan. Red O’Keefe? Florian Grellier’s bar buddy?”
“You’ve got him?”
“The gentleman awaits as we speak.”
Red O’Keefe. Aka Bud Keith. M. Keith?
“Does he admit to working for the Villejoin sisters?”
“Funny. I plan to discuss that very topic.”
“How did you find him?”
“O’Keefe’s former probation officer has one helluva network.”
“What’s his story?”
“Pumps gas part-time at a Petro-Canada station on Boulevard Décarie, lives in a flop around the corner. O’Keefe and I are about to have a chitchat. Care to observe?”
“When?”
“Now.”
I glanced across the hall. Through the window, the Lac Saint-Jean bones lay as I’d left them.
“I’ll be right down.”
* * *
The SQ interrogation room could have been part of any cop shop on the planet. Blank walls, battered table and chairs. Today the small space smelled faintly of gasoline, the aroma introduced, I assumed, by the lone occupant’s grease-stained parka.
Occasionally my presence is requested at the questioning of a suspect. Today was one of those times. I assumed Ryan’s motive was the usual. Afterward he’d want my take on the guy.
O’Keefe looked up when Ryan and I entered, hooded eyes hard and analytical, as though dissecting the world and everyone in it. His hair was stone gray, styled by someone probably calling herself a “creative director” and charging a bundle. The cut was an odd contrast to the blue-collar outfit.
Ryan introduced himself and held out a hand. O’Keefe’s fingers remained firmly laced atop his wool tuque and mittens.
Ryan queried O’Keefe’s preference of French or English.
The cold glare held.
We sat. Ryan placed a folder on the table. O’Keefe ignored it. Us.
Perhaps because of the surname, perhaps for my benefit, Ryan proceeded in English. “Thank you for coming in today, Mister O’Keefe. I’ll try to take up as little of your time as possible.”
O’Keefe’s eyes slid to me, returned to Ryan.
“Dr. Brennan and I work together.”
Vague. Let O’Keefe wonder.
“You are presently employed as a gas station attendant?”
O’Keefe remained impassive.
“I know this is tedious, but I need to verify facts for my report.”
I’d seen Ryan conduct dozens of interviews, knew what he was doing. Start out easy, gain the suspect’s confidence, causing him to reveal things he might otherwise hide, allowing him to contradict himself. Then move in for the kill.
Eyeballing this suspect, I wondered how successful the tactic would be. I knew from Ryan that O’Keefe had graced facilities in a number of provinces.
“It is O’Keefe, isn’t it?” Ryan opened but did not glance at the file. “There seems to be some confusion on the name.”
“Let’s not dick-dance around. We both know I got a sheet.” O’Keefe’s speech was Anglophone, working-class, with an accent that sounded more Eastern Seaboard than Montreal.
“Let’s not.” Ryan’s pleasant tone now had an edge. “Let’s talk about Florian Grellier.”
“Who the fuck is Florian Grellier?”
“Let’s try this one. Bud Keith.”
O’Keefe hitched his shoulders. “I got a stage name. So what? So did Judy Garlan
d.”
“You ever do yard work? Tree removal, that sort of thing?” Another of Ryan’s ploys. Change tack. Switch to a probably touchy subject. Throw the interviewee off.
Not O’Keefe.
“Think she’d a got that star in Hollywood as Frances Gumm? Wait. I got a good title for the movie.” O’Keefe arced a hand, as though spanning a marquis. “A Star Ain’t Born.”
No one laughed.
“Tree removal?” Ryan pressed.
“I’ve done a lot of things.”
“Tell me about Pointe-Calumet.”
“Hear it’s nice in summer. Real green.”
“Did you tell Florian Grellier you knew the location of a buried body?”
“What the fuck?”
Ryan waited. The silence worked.
“That what this dickhead Grellier told you?”
“Answer the question.”
“How can I do that when I got no clue who this freak is?”
“I’ll paint a picture. You’re in a bar. Grellier’s buying. You’re eager to keep the shots coming.”
“No cigar. I’m a beer man.”
“Come on, Red. What was it? You got drunk, began running your mouth to impress your new pal? Or maybe you got creative to gain some street creds? The guy’s buying, so you keep spinning.”
“This Grellier. He finger me for this?”
“Picked your smiling face from a whole lot of others.”
“Let me guess. His ass is looking to do time.”
Ryan neither confirmed nor denied.
O’Keefe thought a moment. Then, “I was a cop, I’d be asking myself, a guy trades something like that? Why? What’s to gain? I’d be thinking the shitbag’s probably gaming the system.”
Ryan didn’t argue with O’Keefe’s logic.
“Let’s try another name. Christelle Villejoin.”
“That some chick says I owe her money? Bad news, I got none.”
“Christelle Villejoin was eighty-three. Someone cracked her skull and buried her in the woods.”
I watched O’Keefe for signs of agitation. The guy’s face remained a stone mask.
“Christelle’s sister was eighty-six. She was beaten to death with a cane.”
“You got some kind of hearing disorder? I already said. I never met your snitch. Know nothing about no stiff in the woods.”
“How about we back the attitude down, Red. Or is it Bud?”