Ryan stood. ?Now what??
?If he?s right, we go in and toss the place. We?ve got a name, we?ll run Monsieur Tanguay down. Maybe Grammama knows where he?s gone. If not, we?ll pop him as soon as he comes anywhere near here.?
Ryan looked to Bertrand, pointed at the door.
Five more raps.
Nothing.
?Break it?? asked Bertrand.
?Monsieur Tanguay won?t like it.?
We all looked at the boy.
Ryan lowered himself a third time.
?He gets really mad if you do something bad,? said Mathieu.
?It?s important that we look for something in Monsieur Tanguay?s apartment,? explained Ryan.
?He won?t like it if you break his door.?
I squatted next to Ryan.
?Mathieu, do you have Monsieur Tanguay?s fish in your apartment??
Head shake.
?Do you have a key to Monsieur Tanguay?s apartment??
Mathieu nodded.
?Could you let us in??
?No.?
?Why not??
?I can?t come out when Grammama?s gone.?
?That?s good, Mathieu. Grammama wants you to stay inside because she thinks it?s safer for you. She?s right, and you?re a good boy to listen to her.?
The Mississippi smile spread north again.
?Do you think we could use the key, Mathieu, just for a few minutes? It?s very important police business and you are correct that we shouldn?t break the door.?
?I guess that would be okay,? he said. ?Because you?re police.?
Mathieu darted out of sight, returned with a key. He pressed his lips together and looked straight at me as he held it through the crack.
?Don?t break Monsieur Tanguay?s door.?
?We?ll be very careful.?
?And don?t go in the kitchen. That?s bad. You can?t ever go in the kitchen.?
?You close the door and stay inside, Mathieu. I?ll knock when we?ve finished. Don?t open the door until you hear my knock.?
The small face nodded solemnly, then disappeared behind the door.
We rejoined Bertrand, who knocked again, called out. There was an awkward pause, then Ryan nodded, and I slipped the key into the lock.
The door opened directly into a small living room, its color scheme shades of maroon. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling on two sides, the other walls were wood, every surface darkened by years of varnishing. Crushed red velvet looped across the windows, backed by grayinglace, which blocked most of the sunlight. We stood absolutely still, listening and peering into the unlit room.
The only sound I heard was a faint buzzing, erratic, like electricity jumping a broken circuit. Bzzt. Bzzzzzt. Bzt. Bzt. It came from behind double doors ahead and to the left. Otherwise, the place was deathly quiet.
Poor choice of adverb, Brennan.
I looked around and furniture shapes emerged from the deep shadow, looking old and worn. The center of the room was occupied by a carved wooden table with matching chairs. A well-used couch sagged in the front bay, a Mexican blanket stretched across it. Opposite, a wooden trunk served as a stand for a Sony Trinitron.
Scattered about the room were small wooden tables and cabinets. Some were quite nice, not unlike pieces I?d unearthed at flea markets. I doubted any of these had been afternoon finds, purchased as bargains to strip and refinish. They looked as though they?d been in the place for years, ignored and unappreciated as successive tenants came and went.
The floor was covered by an aging dhurrie. And plants. Everywhere. They were tucked in corners and strung along baseboards and hung from hooks. What the occupant lacked in furnishings, he?d made up for in greenery. Plants dangled from wall brackets and rested on windowsills, tabletops, sideboards, and shelves.
?Looks like a fucking botanical garden,? said Bertrand.
And smells, I thought. A musty odor permeated the air, a blend of fungus, and leaves, and damp earth.
Across from the main entrance a short hall led to a single closed door. Ryan gestured me back with the same move he?d used in the hall, then slid along the wall, shoulders hunched, knees bent, back pressed to the plaster. He inched up to the door, paused, then shot a foot hard against the wood.
The door flew in, hit the wall, and recoiled toward the frame, then came to rest half open. I strained for sounds of movement, my heart beating with the erratic buzzing. Bzzzzzzt. Bzt. Bzt. Bzzzzt. Da dum dum dum. Da dum. Da dum dum.
An eerie glow seeped from behind the half-open door, accompanied by a soft gurgling.
?Found the fish,? said Ryan, moving through the door.
He flicked a switch with his pen and the room was thrown into brightness. Standard bedroom. Single bed, Indian print spread. Nightstand, lamp, alarm, nasal spray. Dresser, no mirror. Tiny bath to the rear. One window. Heavy drapes blocked a view of a brick wall.
The only uncommon items were the tanks that lined the back wall. Mathieu was right, they were fantastique. Electric blues, canary yellows, and black-and-white stripes darted in and out of rose and white coral and foliage of every shade of green imaginable. Each tiny ecosystem was illuminated in aquamarine and lulled by a rolling oxygen sonata.
I watched, mesmerized, feeling an idea about to form. Coaxing it. What? Fish? What? Nothing.
Ryan moved around me, using his pen to sweep back the shower curtain, open the medicine cabinet, poke among the food and nets surrounding the tanks. He used a hanky to open dresser drawers, then the pen to leaf through underwear, socks, shirts, and sweaters.
Forget the fish, Brennan. Whatever idea was in my mind, it was as elusive as the bubbles in the tanks, rising toward the surface only to disappear.
?Anything??
He shook his head. ?Nothing obvious. Don?t want to piss off recovery, so I?m just doing a quick check. Let?s case the other rooms, then I?ll turn it over to Gilbert. Pretty clear Tanguay?s elsewhere. We?ll nail his ass, but in the meantime we might as well find out what he has here.?
Back in the living room Bertrand was inspecting the TV.
?State of the art,? he said. ?Boy likes his tube.?
?Probably needs a regular Cousteau fix,? said Ryan absently, body tense, eyes scanning the gloom around us. No one would surprise us today.
I wandered to the shelves containing the books. The range of topics was impressive, and, like the TV, the books looked new. I scanned the titles. Ecology. Ichthyology. Ornithology. Psychology. Sex. Lots of science, but the guy?s taste was eclectic. Buddhism. Scientology. Archaeology. Maori art. Kwakiutl wood carving. Samurai warriors. World War II artifacts. Cannibalism.
The shelves held hundreds of paperbacks, including modern fiction, both French and English. Many of my favorites were present. Vonnegut. Irving. McMurtry. But the majority were crime fiction novels. Brutal murderers. Deranged stalkers. Violent psychopaths. Heartless cities. I could quote their cover blurbs without even reading them. There was also an entire shelf of nonfiction devoted to the lives of serial and spree killers. Manson. Bundy. Ramirez. Boden.
?I think Tanguay and St. Jacques belong to the same book club,? I said.
?This butt wipe probably is St. Jacques,? said Bertrand.
?No, this guy brushes his teeth,? said Ryan.
?Yeah. When he?s Tanguay.?
