opposite direction. The vision of home and bed pulled like a magnet, but there was one more bit of information I had to have.
I hung back and watched Julie scurry up the alley, assuming she?d be easy to follow. Wrong. When I looked up the alley, she was already disappearing around the next corner, and I had to race to catch up.
She took a zigzag path, cutting through lots and alleys to reach a run-down three-flat on St. Dominique, where she mounted the stairs, fumbled for a key, and disappeared through a peeling green door. I watched the tattered door curtain sway, then settle, barely disturbed by her indifferent slam. I noted the number.
Okay, Brennan. Bedtime. I was home in twenty minutes.
Under the covers, with Birdie at my knee, I formed a plan. It was easy to decide what not to do. Don?t call Ryan. Don?t spook Julie. Don?t tip the little cretin with the knife and nightie act. Find out if it?s St. Jacques. Find out where he lives. Or where his current hidey-hole is. Get something concrete. Then bring in the clod squad. You are here, boys. Bust this place.
It sounded so simple.
32
I DRAGGED THROUGH WEDNESDAY IN A FOG OF EXHAUSTION. I HADN?T intended to go to the lab but LaManche called, needing a report. Once there, I decided to stay. I sorted through old cases, sluggish and irritable, clearing those that Denis could discard. It?s a task I hate, and one I?d been putting off for months. I lasted until 4 P.M. Once home I ate an early supper, took a long bath, and was under the covers by 8 o?clock.
When I woke on Thursday, sunlight was streaming into the bedroom, and I knew it was late. I stretched, rolled, and looked at the clock. Ten twenty-five. Good. I?d recouped some lost sleep. Phase One of the Plan. I had no intention of going to work.
I took my time getting up, running through a checklist of what I intended to do. From the moment I?d opened my eyes I felt charged, like a runner on marathon day. I wanted to set a pace. Control, Brennan. Run a smart race.
I went to the kitchen, made coffee, and read the
I had a second cup and finished the paper. So far so good. On to Phase Two. Mindless Activity.
I threw on shorts and a T and went to the gym. Thirty minutes on the StairMaster and a round on the Nautilus. Next, the Provigo, where I bought enough groceries to feed Cleveland. Back home I spent the afternoon mopping, scouring, dusting, and vacuuming. At one point I considered cleaning the refrigerator, but decided against it. Too extreme.
By 7 P.M. my nesting frenzy was sated. The place reeked of spray cleaners and lemon polish, the dining room table was covered with drying sweaters, and I had clean panties to last a month. I, on the other hand, looked and smelled as if I had been camping for weeks. I was ready to go.
The day had been sweltering and the evening promised no relief. I chose another shorts and T combo, accessorized with worn Nikes. Perfect. Not your street professional, but someone prowling the Main in search of recreational chemicals or a companion for the evening, or both. As I drove toward St. Laurent I ran through the Plan. Find Julie. Follow Julie. Find nightie man. Follow nightie man. Don?t be seen. Simplicity itself.
I drove across Ste. Catherine, scanning the sidewalks on both sides. A few women had opened shop at the Granada, but there was no sign of Julie. I wouldn?t expect her this early. I was allowing myself extra time to get into place.
The first glitch came when I turned into my alley. Like a genie from a bottle, a large woman materialized and bore down on me. She had Tammy Bakker makeup and the neck of a bull terrier. Though I couldn?t catch all her words, there was no mistaking her message. I backed out and drove off in search of other parking arrangements.
I found a spot six blocks north, on a narrow side street lined with three-flats. Hot town. Summer in the city. Neighborhood watch was underway. Men?s eyes tracked me from a balcony, others from a stoop, conversation suspended, beer cans resting on sweaty knees. Were they hostile? Curious? Disinterested? Very interested? I didn?t stay in place long enough for anyone to approach. I locked the car and covered the distance to the end of the block at a brisk pace. Perhaps I was overly nervous, but I didn?t want complications to sabotage my mission.
I breathed easier when I rounded the corner and entered the flow on St. Laurent. A clock in Le Bon Deli said eight-fifteen. Damn. I?d wanted to be in position by now. Should I modify the Plan? What if I missed her?
At Ste. Catherine I crossed St. Laurent and rechecked the crowd in front of the Granada. No Julie. Would she even come here? What route would she take? Damn. Why hadn?t I started earlier? No time for indecision.
I hurried east, scanning the faces on both sides of the street, but the pedestrian flow had grown, making it harder to be sure she didn?t slip past. I cut north at the vacant lot, retracing the path Jewel and I had taken two nights earlier. I hesitated at the alley bar, moved on, gambling again that Julie was not an early starter.
A few minutes later I stood hunched behind a utility pole on the far side of St. Dominique. The street was deserted and still. Julie?s building showed no signs of life, windows dark, porch light dead, paint peeling grimly in the muggy dusk. The scene brought to mind photos I had seen of the Towers of Silence, platforms maintained by the Parsi sect in India on which they placed their dead to have the bones picked clean by vultures. I shivered in the heat.
Time crept by. I watched. An old woman trudged up the block, dragging a cart loaded with rags. She muscled her evening?s take along the uneven pavement, then disappeared around a corner. The cart?s tinny squeak-bump sound ebbed, then stilled. Nothing else disturbed the street?s ragged ecosystem.
I looked at my watch-eight-forty. It had grown very dark. How long should I wait? What if she?d already left? Should I ring the bell? Damn. Why hadn?t I gotten the time out of her? Why hadn?t I gotten here earlier? Already the Plan was showing deficiencies.
Another expanse of time went by. A minute, maybe. I was debating leaving when a light went on in an upstairs room. Not long after, Julie emerged in bustier, mini-skirt, and over-the-knee boots. Her face, midriff, and thighs were splotches of white in the porch shadow. I drew back behind my pole.
She hesitated a moment, chin raised, arms wrapped around her midriff. She seemed to be testing the night. Then she plunged down the steps and walked quickly toward Ste. Catherine. I followed, trying to keep her in view, yet remain unnoticed.
At the corner she surprised me, turning left, away from the Main. Good call on the Granada, Brennan, but where is she going? Julie wended her way quickly through the crowd, boot fringe swinging, oblivious to cat calls and wolf whistles. She was a good wender and I had to work to keep up.
The crowd grew smaller as we moved east, and eventually ceased being one. I?d been lengthening the distance between us in direct response to the thinning out of sidewalk people, but it was probably unnecessary. Julie seemed focused on a destination and disinterested in other foot traffic.
The streets not only grew emptier, the neighborhood changed flavor. We now shared Ste. Catherine with dandies in GQ haircuts, hardbodies in tanks and spray paint jeans, unisex couples, and the occasional transvestite. We had crossed into the gay village.
I followed Julie past coffeehouses, bookstores, and ethnic restaurants. Eventually she turned north, then east, then south onto a dead-end street of warehouses and seedy wooden buildings, many with corrugated metal covering the windows. Some had the appearance of having been upfitted for business space at street level, though they probably hadn?t seen customers in years. Papers, cans, and bottles littered both curbs. The place looked like a set for the Jets and the Sharks.
Julie went straight to an entrance halfway up the block. She opened a dirty glass door covered with metal latticework, spoke briefly, then disappeared inside. I could see the glow of a beer sign through a window to the
