?
Showdown.
?Sergeant Detective Claudel,? I began, returning his French and choosing my words carefully. ?I believe I see significant similarities in several homicide victims whom I have been asked to examine. If this is so, there may be one individual, a psychopath as you call him, behind all of their deaths. Maybe I?m right, maybe I?m wrong. Do you really want to assume responsibility for ignoring the possibility and risking the lives of more innocent victims??
I was polite but unyielding. I, too, was unamused.
?Oh hell, Luc, let her ride along,? said Charbonneau. ?We?re just going to do some interviews.?
?Go on, this guy?s going down whether you cut her in or not,? said Ryan.
Claudel said nothing. He took out his keys, stuffed the photo into his pocket, and brushed past me on his way to the door.
?Let?s boogie,? said Charbonneau.
I had a hunch yet another day might go into overtime.
9
GETTING THERE WAS NO SMALL TASK. AS CHARBONNEAU FOUGHT his way west along De Maisonneuve, I sat in the back, gazing out the window and ignoring the bursts of static that erupted from the radio. The afternoon was sweltering. As we inched along, I watched heat rise from the pavement in undulating waves.
Montreal was preening itself with patriotic fervor. The fleur-de-lis was everywhere, hung from windows and balconies, worn on T-shirts, hats, and boxer shorts, painted on faces, and waved on flags and placards. From Centre-ville eastward to the Main, sweaty revelers clogged the streets, choking off traffic like plaque in an artery. Thousands of people filled the streets, ebbing and flowing in streams of blue and white. Though seemingly without orientation, the throng oozed generally northward, toward Sherbrooke and the parade, punks moving next to mothers with strollers. The marchers and floats had left St. Urbain at 2 P.M., twirling and high-stepping eastward along Sherbrooke. At that moment they were just above us.
Over the hum of the air conditioner I could hear a lot of laughter and sporadic bursts of song. Already there was some fighting. As we waited out the light at Amherst, I watched a lummox push his girlfriend against a wall. He had hair the color of unbrushed teeth, burred on top and long in the back. His chicken-white skin was moving toward grenadine. We pulled away before the scene could play itself out, leaving me with an image of the girl?s startled face superimposed on the breasts of a naked woman. Eyes squinting and mouth in an O, she was framed by a poster for a Tamara de Lempicka exposition at the Mus #233;e des Beaux Arts. ?
Charbonneau turned to Claudel. ?Lemme see that picture a minute.?
Claudel pulled it from his pocket. Charbonneau studied it, shifting his eyes from the traffic to the photo in his hand.
?He sure don?t look like much, does he?? he said to no one in particular. Wordlessly he extended the picture to me over the seat back.
What I held was a black-and-white print, a blowup of a single frame taken from high up and to the subject?s right. It showed a blurred male figure with face averted, concentrating on the task of inserting or retracting a card at an automatic teller machine.
His hair was short and wispy in front, splayed downward into a fringe on his forehead. The top of his head was almost bare, and he had combed as many long strands as possible from left to right in an attempt to hide his baldness. My favorite male ?do.? About as attractive as a Speedo bathing suit.
His eyes were shielded by bushy brows, and his ears flared out like petals on a pansy. His skin looked deathly pale. He wore a plaid shirt and what looked like work pants. The graininess and poor angle obscured any other details. I had to agree with Charbonneau. He didn?t look like much. It could have been anyone. Silently, I handed the photo back.
D #233;panneurs are the convenience stores of Quebec. They are found anywhere shelves and a refrigerator can be packed into a covered space. Scattered throughout the city, d #233;panneurs survive by providing grocery, dairy, and alcohol essentials. They dot every neighborhood, forming a capillary bed that feeds the needs of locals and foot travelers. They can be counted on for milk, cigarettes, beer, and cheap wine, the remainder of their inventory determined by neighborhood preferences. They provide no glitz and no parking. The upscale version may have a bank machine. It was to one such that we were heading.
?Rue Berger?? Charbonneau asked Claudel.
?
Charbonneau turned left and began creeping south. In his impatience he kept goosing the gas then tapping the brake, causing the Chevy to lurch like a Ferris wheel seat. Feeling a bit seasick, I focused on the action at the boutiques, bistros, and modern brick buildings of L?Universit #233; du Qu #233;bec, which lined St. Denis.
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?Bastard,? he added as he hit the brake then shot up to its bumper. ?Look at that oily little freak.?
Claudel ignored him, apparently used to his partner?s erratic driving. I thought of Dramamine, but held my tongue.
Eventually we reached Ren #233; L #233;vesque and turned west, then cut north onto St. Dominique. We doubled back at Ste. Catherine and, once again, I found myself in the Main, less than one block from Gabby?s girls. Berger is one of a small checkerboard of side streets sandwiched between St. Laurent and St. Denis. It lay directly ahead.
Charbonneau turned the corner and slid to the curb in front of the D #233;panneur Berger. A dingy sign above its door promised ?
?Guy?s name is Halevi,? said Charbonneau, consulting his notebook. ?He probably won?t have much to say.?
?They never do. His memory may improve if we sweat him a little,? said Claudel, slamming the car door.
The geezers watched us silently.
A string of brass bells jangled as we entered. The interior was hot and smelled of dust and spices and old cardboard. Two rows of back-to-back shelves ran the length of the store, forming one center and two side aisles. The dusty shelves held an assortment of aging canned and packaged goods.
On the far right a horizontal refrigerator case held vats of nuts, dal, dried peas, and flour. An assembly of limp vegetables lay in its far end. Something from another era, the case no longer refrigerated.
Upright coolers with wine and beer lined the left wall. In the rear, a small, open case, draped with plastic to conserve the cold, held milk, olives, and feta cheese. To its right, in the far corner, was the bank machine. Except for this, the place looked as if it hadn?t been renovated since Alaska applied for U.S. statehood.
The counter was directly to the left of the front door. Mr. Halevi sat behind it, speaking heatedly into a cellular phone. He kept running his hand over his naked head, the maneuver a holdover from a hairier youth. A sign on the cash register read SMILE. GOD LOVES YOU. Halevi was not taking his own advice. His face was red, and he was clearly piqued. I stood back and watched.
Claudel positioned himself directly in front of the counter and cleared his throat. Halevi showed him a palm and nodded his head in a ?hold on? gesture. Claudel flashed his badge and shook his head. Halevi looked momentarily confused, said something in rapid Hindi, and clicked off. His eyes, huge behind thick lenses, moved from Claudel to Charbonneau and back.
?Yes,? he said.
