Deja Dead Part 48

"They weren't even made by the same company."

He got up to remove the glove. My mind was stumbling over our finding.

"Would X-ray diffraction give more information?"

"What we've done, X-ray microfluorescence, tells what elements are present in an object. X-ray diffraction can describe the actual mixture of the elements. The chemical structure. For example, with microfluorescence we can know that something contains sodium and chloride. With diffraction we can tell that it is made up of sodium-chloride crystals.

"To oversimplify, in the X-ray diffractometer a sample is rotated and hit with X rays. The X rays bounce off the crystals, and their pattern of diffraction indicates the structure of those crystals.

"So one limitation with diffraction is that it can only be done on materials with a crystalline structure. That's about eighty percent of everything that comes in. Unfortunately, latex is not crystalline in structure. Diffraction probably wouldn't add much anyway. These gloves are definitely made by different manufacturers."

"What if they're just from different boxes? Surely individual batches of latex must vary."

He was silent for a moment. Then: "Wait. Let me show you something."

He disappeared into the main lab and I could hear him talking to the technician. He reappeared with a stack of printouts, each composed of seven or eight sheets showing the familiar spire and steeple patterning. He unfolded each series and we looked at the variations in pattern.

"Each of these shows a sequence of tests done on gloves from a single manufacturer, but sampled from different boxes. There is variation, but the differences are never as great as those in the gloves we just a.n.a.lyzed."

I examined several series. The size of the peaks varied, but the components showed consistency.

"Now. Look at this."

He unfurled another series of printouts. Again, there were some differences, but overall the mix was the same.

Then I caught my breath. The configuration looked familiar. I looked at the symbols. Zn. Fe. Ca. S. Si. Mg. High zinc, silicon, and calcium content. Traces of the other elements. I laid the printout from Gabby's glove above the series. The pattern was almost identical.

"Monsieur Lacroix, are these gloves from the same manufacturer?"

"Yes, yes. That's my point. From the same box, probably. I just remembered this."

"What case is this?" My heart rate had picked up tempo.

"It came in just a few weeks ago." He flipped to the first sheet in the series. Numero d'evenement: Numero d'evenement: 327468. "I can pull it up on the computer." 327468. "I can pull it up on the computer."

"Please."

Data filled the screen in seconds. I scanned it.

Numero d'evenement: 327468. Numero de LML: 29427. Requesting Agency: c.u.m. Investigators: L. Claudel and M. Charbonneau. Recovery location: 1422 Rue Berger. Recovery date: 24/06/94.

An old rubber glove. Maybe the guy worried about his nails. Claudel! I thought he'd meant a glove for household cleaning! St. Jacques had a surgical glove! It matched the one in Gabby's grave!

I thanked Monsieur Lacroix, gathered the printouts, and left. I returned the gloves to property, my mind tearing through what I'd just learned. The glove from Tanguay's kitchen did not match the one buried with Gabby's body. Tanguay's prints were on it. The outside stains were animal blood. The glove found with Gabby was clean. No blood. No prints. St. Jacques had a surgical glove. It matched the one in Gabby's grave. Was Bertrand right? Were Tanguay and St. Jacques the same person?

A pink slip waited on my desk. c.u.m Ident had called. The photos of the Rue Berger flat had been archived on a CD-ROM disk. I could view it there or check it out. I called to request the latter, told them I'd be there shortly.

I fought my way to c.u.m headquarters, cursing the rush-hour traffic and the tourists that clogged the Old Port area. Leaving the car double-parked, I bolted the steps and went directly to the desk sergeant on the third floor. Amazingly, he had the disk. I signed it out, dashed back to the car, and stuffed it in my briefcase.

All the way home I kept looking over my shoulder, watching for Tanguay. Watching for St. Jacques. I couldn't stop myself.

37.

IGOT HOME ABOUT FIVE-THIRTY AND SAT IN THE SILENCE OF THE apartment, a.s.sessing what else I could do. Nothing. Ryan was right. Tanguay could be out there, waiting for his chance at me. I wouldn't make it easier for him. apartment, a.s.sessing what else I could do. Nothing. Ryan was right. Tanguay could be out there, waiting for his chance at me. I wouldn't make it easier for him.

But I had to eat. And keep busy.

As I let myself out the front door, I scanned the street. There. In the alley to the left of the pizza parlor. I nodded to the two uniforms and pointed in the direction of Ste. Catherine. I could see them confer, then one got out.

My street crosses Ste. Catherine, not far from Le Faubourg. As I walked toward the market I could sense the annoyance of the cop on my tail. No matter. The day was glorious. I hadn't noticed at the lab. The heat had broken and huge white clouds floated in a dazzling blue sky, casting islands of shadow over the day and its players. It felt good to be outside.

Veggies. At La Plantation I squeezed avocados, evaluated the color of bananas, chose broccoli, brussels sprouts, and baking potatoes with the concentration of a neurosurgeon. A baguette at the boulangerie boulangerie. A chocolate mousse at the patisserie. I picked up pork chops, ground beef, and a tourtiere tourtiere at the boucherie. at the boucherie.

"C'est tout?"

"No, what the h.e.l.l. Give me a T-bone. Really thick." I held my thumb and index finger an inch apart.

As I watched him remove the saw from its hook, the cognitive itch began again. I tried to scratch it into a full-blown idea, but with no more success than I'd had before. The saw? Too obvious. Anyone can buy a chef's saw. The SQ had run that lead to a dead end, contacting every outlet in the province. Thousands had been sold.

What, then? I'd learned that trying to pry an idea out of the subconscious only drives it deeper. If I let it drift, eventually it will float to the surface. I paid for my meat and went home, with a brief detour at the Rue Ste. Catherine Burger King.

What greeted me was the last thing I wanted to see. Someone had called. For several minutes I sat on the edge of the couch, clutching my packages and staring at the tiny indicator light. One message. Was it Tanguay? Would he speak to me, or would I hear the sound of his listening, followed by a dial tone?

"You're being hysterical, Brennan. It's probably Ryan."

I dried my palm, reached out, and pushed the b.u.t.ton. It wasn't Tanguay. It was worse.

"Hey, Mom. Y'all out having a good time? h.e.l.lo? Are you there? Pick u-up." I could hear what sounded like traffic, as if she were calling from an outside phone. "Guess not. Well, I can't talk anyway. I'm on the road. On the road again . . ." She did a Willie Nelson imitation. "Pretty good, eh? Anyway, I'm coming to visit, Mom. You're right. Max is a p.e.c.k.e.r head. I don't need that." I heard a voice in the background. "Okay, just give me a minute," she said to whoever it was. "Listen, I got a chance to visit New York. The Big Apple. I hooked a free trip, so here I am. Anyway, I can get a ride to Montreal, so I'm coming up. See you soon!"

Click.

"No! Don't come here, Katy. No!" I spoke to the empty air.

I listened to the tape rewind. Jesus, what a nightmare! Gabby is dead. A psychopath placed a picture of Katy and me in her grave. Now Katy is on her way here. Blood pounded in my temples. My mind raced. I have to stop her. How? I don't know where she is.

Pete.

As his phone rang I had a flashback. Katy at three. At the park. I was talking to another mother, my eyes on Katy as she poured sand into plastic containers. Suddenly, she dropped her shovel and ran to the swings. She hesitated a moment, watching the iron pony swing back, then ran to it, her face exuberant with the feel of spring and the sight of the colorful mane and bridle moving through the air. I knew it would hit her and I could not stop it. It was happening again.

No answer on Pete's direct 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 gla.s.s case, her face flaccid in the fluorescent glare. I watched her double back and point to a rabbit. The stiff little carca.s.s 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 coa.r.s.e. The arms that hung from his T-shirt looked surprisingly thin and sinewy in contrast. Dark splotches marred the white of his ap.r.o.n, 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.