these years of waiting on him hand and foot, to say suddenly that her cooking was like “something a dog might drag in off the street.”
His exact words.
Matty had to sit down. She couldn’t answer him. He had never criticized her cooking before. It had the effect on her of a personal attack. As if it were she herself who was flawed. All she could say was, “What?”
“This!” He pushed his plate away. The Greek moussaka casserole that had taken so long to prepare. His face was furrowed with anger, worm lips pink and wet, pouting and wriggling. “It’s inedible. I’m sick to death of foul recipes from foreign cookbooks. I mean, what in heaven’s name do you call this mess? Chinese dogshit? Japanese roadkill? What?”
“It’s Greek-”
“I thought as much. Foreign filth. Whatever happened to plain grilled chops with new potatoes? Or a nice piece of steak with chips? Boiled ham, cabbage and beets? Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? You haven’t cooked a proper meal in more than a year.”
Matty had changed her style of cooking, she had to admit. But she thought he’d liked it. The articles in Canadian Woman stressed the importance of good nutrition. Less fat and more legumes and vegetables. Less meat, or even no meat at all, but tofu or beans instead.
She was so upset she cried.
This made Albert even angrier. He stood and hurled his plate over her head. Plate and food hit the wall with a crash.
She was terrified. She thought he would strike her. But he stomped off down to the basement. When she was finished crying, she set to cleaning the mess off the wall and floor.
Very well. If that was what he wanted, it was back to the grilled pork chops. Except this time she would leave the chops out on a plate in the oven where he wouldn’t see them and where they could breathe for a while, like wine, until they were ready.
Until her bacterial accomplices had brewed their poison.
During lunch at Hegel’s, Wexler filled Casey in.
“She was Roseanne Agostino, white, thirty-two, sales clerk at Eaton’s, unmarried. Lived alone in a studio walk-up on Broughton. On her way home from the fitness center when she met up with her killer. Same mo: handcuffed, raped, clothes missing, head missing.”
Casey shook his head. “How did the cops id her so fast?”
“Her folks live in New Westminster. They’d been calling her all weekend. When they hadn’t reached her by Monday night, they called the police. They made the id from childhood burn scars on her hands and arms.”
Ozeroff was unusually quiet.
They began to cobble together a lead story for their Thursday edition. Percy, in the meantime, had Ozeroff interview women in the shopping areas, asking their opinions about the murders. Whether they thought the police were doing their best to catch the killer. When all the stories were in the works, Percy went with Casey and Wexler’s “Terror in the Streets” headline over Duchesne’s murder simulation, a picture of a woman’s bare legs protruding from under a hydrangea bush. “It’s film noir,” Duchesne explained to Percy.
The papers hit the streets early Thursday morning, as usual. But what was unusual was how quickly they were all snatched up. By late afternoon, a harassed Brenda was madly fielding complaints at the front counter. Hoarsely explaining to irate callers that there were no further copies of the paper available.
So much of the success of the news business, Casey thought, seemed built on the misfortunes of others.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Casey quit work early, donned raingear and took a walk on the seawall, his mind clenched on the three murders.
A light oyster-gray rain laid a mist over the beach and the ocean. The freighters anchored offshore looked like ghost ships, their riding lights flickering in the gloom.
Casey thought about dates.
Murder dates.
Julia Dagg was butchered on Monday, November 6. Corinne Wakabayashi thirteen days later, on Sunday, November 19. Roseanne Agostino thirteen days later, on Saturday, December 2.
If the killer kept to his thirteen-day timetable, then the next murder, if there was one, would be on Friday, December 15.
One week from now.
He told Jack Wexler.
Jack called his buddy Detective Sergeant Fraser in homicide.
Emma Shaughnessy asked Casey if he would walk her home from the gym when they were through. “It’s this damned killer,” she said. “I’m only five blocks away, but I’d feel safer with an Irishman.”
“I’d be happy to see you home.”
She felt safe with this quiet man. There was something about his blue eyes, lazy smile and rumpled appearance that invited confidence and trust. She was sure that Casey would understand her need for what it was: safety and protection. Simple friendship. He would expect no favors and imagine no subtext, of that she felt certain.
It was raining, as usual.
Emma said, “This rain would wash the ears off a donkey, aren’t I right?”
“A cup of coffee might warm you.”
“I don’t drink coffee at night. But Devlin’s tea would be good.”
“Devlin’s it is then.”
They found a table. Casey brought coffee for himself and tea for Emma. Emma had to listen carefully over the loud buzz of conversation, for Casey spoke quietly, never raising his voice.
“How are your colleagues at school taking these murders?” he asked.
“Just as you’d expect,” she said. “The women leave the school as soon as the three o’clock bell rings. Home before dark. What do you know about this latest murder?”
“Nothing really, except she was killed on the thirteenth day, just like the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was playing with the numbers and noticed that each of the three murders is thirteen days apart.”
“There’s a murder every thirteen days?”
“Looks like it so far.”
“Do the police know this?”
“I told Wexler, who told his police friend.”
“So now they know. Did they know before Wexler told them?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Do you know why it’s always the thirteenth day?”
Casey shook his head. “No idea.”
He walked her home through the wind and the rain to her apartment at Killarney Place.
“Thanks, Casey,” she said with a grateful smile. She didn’t ask him in.
