?He pays for it, but he doesn?t want to fuck.?
I scooped noodles from my soup and waited.
?Girl named Julie goes with him. No one else will. She?s about as smart as a runner bean, but that?s another story. She told me it?s the same show every time. They go to the room, our hero brings a paper bag with a nightie inside. Nothing kinky, lacy kinds of stuff. He watches her put it on, then tells her to lie on the bed. Okay, no big deal. Then he strokes the nightie with one hand and his dick with the other. Pretty soon he gets hard as an oil derrick and blows a gusher, grunting and groaning like he?s off in some other creation. Then he makes her take off the gown, thanks her, pays her, and leaves. Julie figures it?s easy money.?
?What makes you think this is the guy worrying my friend??
?One time, he?s stuffing Granny?s nightie back in the ditty bag, Julie sees a big ol? knife handle. She tells him, you want more pussy, cowboy, lose the knife. He tells her it?s his sword of righteousness or some damned thing, goes on about the knife, and his soul, and ecological balance, and crap like that. Scares the shit out of her.?
?And??
Another shrug.
?He still around??
?Haven?t seen him for a while, but that don?t mean much. I never did see him regular. He?d kind of drift in and drift out.?
?Did you ever talk to him??
?Cutie, we?ve all talked to him. When he?s around he?s like a case of the drips, irritating as hell but you can?t shake it. That?s how I know he?s got the personality of roach larvae.?
?Ever see him with Gabby?? I slurped some more noodles.
She sat back and laughed. ?Nice try, sugar.?
?Where could I find him??
?Hell if I know. Wait long enough, he?ll show up.?
?How about Julie??
?It?s a free trade zone here, ch #232;re, folks come and go. I don?t keep track.?
?Have you seen her lately??
She gave it some thought. ?Can?t say as I have.?
I studied the noodles at the bottom of the bowl and I studied Jewel. She had lifted the lid a tiny crack, allowed a peek inside. Could I raise it farther? I took the chance.
?There may be a serial killer out there, Jewel. Someone murdering women and slicing them up.?
Her expression never changed. She just looked at me, a stony gargoyle. Either she hadn?t understood, or she was dulled to thoughts of violence and pain, even death. Or perhaps she?d thrown on a mask, a facade to conceal a fear too real to validate by speech. I suspected the latter.
?Jewel, is my friend in danger??
Our eyes locked.
?She female, ch #232;re??
I motored my way home, letting my thoughts drift, paying little attention to my driving. De Maisonneuve was deserted, the traffic lights playing to an empty house. Suddenly, a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror and bore down on me.
I crossed Peel and slid to my right to allow the vehicle to pass. The lights moved with me. I shifted back to the inner lane. The driver followed, shifting to high beam.
?Asshole.?
I sped up. The car stayed on my bumper.
A prickle of fear. Maybe it wasn?t just a drunk. I squinted into the rearview mirror, trying to make out the driver. All I could see was a silhouette. It looked large. A man? I couldn?t tell. The lights were blinding. The car unidentifiable.
Hands slick on the wheel, I crossed Guy, turned left around the block, ignoring red lights, shot up my street, and dived underground into the garage of my building.
I waited until the electric door had settled, then bolted, key ready, ears alert for the sound of footsteps. No one followed. As I passed through the first-floor lobby, I peeked through the curtains. A car idled at the curb on the far side of the street, lights burning, its driver a black profile in the predawn dimness. Same car? I couldn?t be certain. Was I losing it?
Thirty minutes later I lay watching the curtain of darkness outside my window fade from charcoal to mourning dove gray. Birdie purred in the crook of my knee. I was so exhausted I?d pulled off my clothes and fallen into bed, skipping the preliminaries. Not like me. Usually I?m compulsive about teeth and makeup. Tonight, I didn?t care.
20
WEDNESDAY IS GARBAGE DAY ON MY BLOCK. I SLEPT THROUGH THE sound of the sanitation truck. I slept through Birdie?s nudging. I slept through three phone calls.
I woke at ten-fifteen feeling sluggish and headachy. I was definitely not twenty-four anymore. All-nighters took their toll, and it made me cranky to admit it.
My hair, my skin, even the pillow and sheets smelled of stale smoke. I bundled the linens and last night?s clothes into the washer, then took a long, sudsy shower. I was spreading peanut butter on a stale croissant when the phone rang.
?Temperance?? LaManche.
?Yes.?
?I have been trying to reach you.?
I glanced at the phone machine. Three messages.
?Sorry.?
?
?I?ll be there within the hour.?
?
I played the messages. A distraught graduate student. LaManche. A hang-up. I wasn?t up to student problems, so I tried Gabby. No answer. I dialed Katy and got her machine.
?Leave a short message, like this one,? it chirped cheerily. I did, not cheerily.
In twenty minutes I was at the lab. Stuffing my purse in a desk drawer, and ignoring the pink slips scattered across the blotter, I went directly downstairs to the morgue.
The dead come first to the morgue. There, they are logged in and stored in refrigerated compartments until assigned to an LML pathologist. Jurisdiction is coded by floor color. The morgue opens directly onto the autopsy rooms, the red floor of each morgue bay stopping abruptly at the autopsy room threshold. The morgue is run by the coroner, the LML controls the operatories. Red floor: coroner. Gray floor: LML. I do my initial examinations in one of the four autopsy rooms. Afterward, the bones are sent up to the histology lab for final cleaning.
LaManche was making a Y incision in the chest of an infant, her tiny shoulders propped on a rubber headrest, her hands spread at her sides as if poised to make a snow angel. I looked at LaManche.
?
Across the room Nathalie Ayers bent over another autopsy as Lisa lifted the breastplate from a young man. Below a shock of red hair his eyes bulged purple and swollen, and I could see a small, dark hole on his right temple. Suicide. Nathalie was a new pathologist at the LML, and didn?t yet do homicides.
Daniel put down the scalpel he was sharpening. ?Do you need the bones from St. Lambert??
?
He nodded and disappeared into the morgue.
The skeletal autopsy took several hours, and I confirmed my initial impression that the remains were of one
