..'
Squill pretended to write in his own pad. 'Preplanned proactive structure, Chief. I'm working up the deployment plan now.'
Hyrum finished the meeting by scribbling arcs between circles, intending to convey cooperation and flow of information. It didn't matter, everyone had carefully noted our true position as butt-bottom on the snowman.
'Good luck gentlemen,' Hyrum said. 'And keep me posted on results.'
Tom shot me a sad smile, knowing Harry and I'd just been backed into the blades. Harry deflated with a growl.
Chief Hyrum looked quizzically at Harry. 'What's that, Detective Nautilus? Did I hear you groan?'
'Sorry, Chief,' Harry said, kneading his thigh. 'Cramp in my leg.'
CHAPTER 10
After the meeting Harry went to check some financials on the victims.
We hardly spoke; we'd been blindsided and there was not a damn thing to do about it. Having been present at Nelson's autopsy, I was the de facto body man, and headed to the morgue for Deschamp's procedure. I knew Dr. Davanelle was to be the pro sector I'd spoken to Vera Braden about the time of the procedure and offhandedly asked who was scheduled.
I planned to ask Ava Davanelle out. I wasn't sure why. And had no idea how to do it.
Will Lindy was at the front door as I arrived, diddling with the lock, a screwdriver in his mouth, tiny parts scattered across the floor. I was always impressed by anyone with mechanical prowess; I relied on duct tape or super glue. If either failed, I was up the creek.
'Can't you hire people to do that, Will? A locksmith?'
'Um er bubdit?' he replied. 'Pap chat.'
'Come again?'
He took the screwdriver from his mouth. 'On our budget? Fat chance.
If I save a hundred bucks here, I'll put it toward something we actually need.'
'I thought you guys got wheelbarrows full of bucks when the place was redone. Put in the new gear, furniture, security cameras, and whatnot.'
'Government dollars,' he said, smiling. 'Spend 'em or lose 'em.'
I went inside, waved to Vera, and ambled back to the autopsy suite. Be humble, be charming, be professional, I told myself. And be them all while keeping your mouth shut.
The procedure was under way as I entered, Ava Davanelle bent low over Deschamps's groin, speaking the inscription into the air for the recording system. She knew one of the things I needed to see and nodded at a table against the wall.
I found a stack of photos taken by Chambliss, his usual excellent work.
The words above Deschamps's pubic hair were displayed beside a ruler, block lettering between three and four millimeters tall, lavender, precise. I waved the photos at Dr. Davanelle.
'Thanks,' I said, smiling her direction. 'Good seeing you again, Doctor. How's it going with '
I caught me before she could. I winced, mouthed, Sorry, and turned back to the photos, shuffling them through my palms. There was a variety, from shots of the full inscription down to individual letters.
I couldn't fathom why anyone making a statement would choose such a hard-to-read color and write in micro type but it would be as logical as subtraction to the mind behind these crimes.
I sat and studied the photographs until seeing them with closed eyes.
Now and then I'd shift my attention to Dr. Davanelle. Her voice was monotonic, her eyes focused on her tasks. She was gowned in blue from crown to knees. I tried to discern the shape of her calves within her beige slacks, and concluded they were slender but not skinny.
The task took three hours. It would soon determine Peter Deschamps had been murdered by some form of head trauma, the head removed by a blade similar to that used to behead Jerrold Nelson, if not the identical one. I walked over as Ava Davanelle stripped off her mask and head cover. I popped the question before she could escape.
'Would you care to do something this evening, Dr. Davanelle? Something quiet and simple? Get a bite to eat, take in a '
The door opened and Walter Huddleston appeared. He launched a pair of scarlet flares my way, then ignored me completely. In less than a minute Deschamps was carted and rolling away. I returned my attention to Ava Davanelle, now shutting off the table's irrigation system.
Without the gentle trickling of water through pipes and across the metal table, the room was blank with silence.
'I was about to ask if…'
My words trailed off when I realized she was staring at me. Not the glare I'd come to know, but something more akin to a gentle perplexity.
She said, 'You phoned my house the other night, didn't you, Detective?'
My heart seized up. Busted.
'I, ah…'
'This is a technical age. Even answering machines can have Caller ID.
May I ask what you wanted at eleven thirty-seven in the evening?'
I boiled my intentions down to essentials. 'I wanted to apologize for the other day. I spoke out of turn. You're the pro sector you call the shots. And my remark about you shoveling down was rude and uncalled for.'
She pursed her lips and raised a slender eyebrow. It made her look almost pretty.
'It took you two days to come to that conclusion?'
I shook my head. 'No. It took me a half-hour to come to the conclusion and two days to find the courage to call.'
Was that a hint of a smile? The footprint of a hint? I wasn't being hand-on-Bible honest, but wasn't about to mention overhearing the scene in Clair's office; it swerved a little too close to eavesdropping.
I said, 'My offer stands, Doctor. Would you care to have dinner?
Nothing fancy, I'm thinking quiet and simple. We could grab a sandwich and watch the sun drop into the water.'
She said, '… No.' But she said it a beat past a hard-and-fast no, the no of dead ends, slammed doors, and fallen bridges. I knew this no. It was the no people used when asked, You sure you don't want more gravy on those taters? It was a yes in disguise. Or maybe a maybe.
I said, 'Please. It means a lot to me.'
Her mouth started to say no again. The next no would have had time to set, and be irrevocable. I held up my palms to cut her off. 'Just think about it,' I said. 'I'll drop by later this afternoon.'
This time I was the one who spun and retreated.
The man at the end of the bar sobbed into his hands and no one paid the slightest attention. A mirrored ball in the ceiling threw spinning diamonds of cut light over men slow-dancing to a torchy Bette Midler ballad. Though it wasn't quite five, the dark bar was filling with the Friday crowd, adding to the others who'd skulked here since the door opened. A fat man with cow eyes gave me a once over and licked his lips. I sent him a wink and a glimpse of shoulder holster. He disappeared like smoke in a hurricane.
Squill's 'deployment plan' meant putting Harry and me on the shoe-leather trail, aiming us at gay bars around town. Harry'd taken his own list and gone a-hunting.
Though the bars had been checked once, we were retracing with Deschamps's photo.
Canvassing bars is easy on TV, where one bartender works around the clock and knows every client down to shoe size. In reality even a modest bar might have a half-dozen regular barkeeps, plus part-timers on call. Even if you sat all the employees in one room and showed them the photos, it'd still be a crap shoot My dictum for the experience in six words: memories are faulty and people lie.
The bartender was a guy with cartoonishly huge muscles and a penchant for black leather: cap, vest, belt,
