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Authors: Kathy Reichs

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Monday Mourning (10 page)

BOOK: Monday Mourning
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No noise.

But something else.

Squatting, I held my hand to the crack. Cold air was seeping out.

“What?” Anne was still using her church voice.

I straightened.

“There’s a door or window open inside.”

“Meaning the Ripper has split? Or settled in for a Guinness and garroting?”

At that moment the lobby door opened. We both went rigid.

Voices. Male.

Anne’s Mace arm shot skyward.

Footsteps retreated down the wing opposite mine. A door opened, closed.

Silence.

Then more footsteps. Coming in our direction!

I motioned Anne into the stairwell hallway parallel to my door. We shrank sideways as one.

A figure filled the frame of the main entrance to my corridor, tuque pulled low to his eyes. Dimness and the hat obscured the man’s face. All I could make out was body form. Tall. Lean.

The figure hesitated, then pulled off the tuque and strode toward us.

Anne’s knuckles went white around her canister.

The figure passed under a sconce. Sandy hair. Bomber jacket.

Relief flooded through me. Followed by embarrassment. And feelings of which I was uncertain.

Defusing Anne with a gesture, I stepped forward.

“What are you doing here?” Whispered, but shrill, thanks to the adrenaline pumping through me.

Ryan’s smile sagged, but held on. “I’ve come to view that greeting as a sign of affection.”

“I’m always
saying
that because you’re always showing up unexpectedly.”

Ryan placed both hands on his chest. “I am a man smitten.” He spread the hands wide. “I cannot stay away.”

Anne lowered her arm, a look of confusion crimping her features.

Ryan turned, preparing to beam charm in Anne’s direction. Seeing the Mace, his smile wavered. He looked a question at me.

Annoyance and embarrassment began a full-court press against fear and relief. If the break-in wasn’t real, I didn’t want to look like a fool. If the break-in was real, I didn’t want to need Ryan’s help. Or his protection.

Unfortunately, at that moment, I suspected I needed both.

“Someone may have broken into my place.”

Ryan didn’t question what I’d said. He spoke without moving.

“How long were you away?”

“A couple of hours. We’ve been back five minutes or less.”

“Did you set the alarm when you left?”

Normally I am good about security. Tonight, Anne and I had been intent on catch-up.

“Probably.” I wasn’t sure.

Pocketing gloves and tuque, Ryan unzipped his jacket, drew his Glock, and gestured us back toward the stairwell.

Anne slid left, back pressed to the wall. I moved behind Ryan.

Ryan twisted sideways against the wall and rapped the door with his gun butt.

“Police! On entre!”

No answer. No movement.

Ryan barked again, in French, then English.

Silence.

Ryan pointed at the lock.

I stepped forward and used my key. Sweeping me back behind him with one arm, Ryan nudged the door open with his foot.

“Stay here.”

Gun gripped in both hands, barrel angled skyward, Ryan crossed the threshold. I followed.

Something crunched underfoot.

One step. Two.

The mirrored wall in the foyer gaped densely black. Courtyard light sparked like phosphorous off the marble floor.

Three.

A saffron trapezoid gleamed from the glass-topped table in the dining room ahead. Other shapes formed out of the darkness. The writing desk. A corner of the sideboard.

A sudden sense of foreboding. I’d left lights burning.

Again, Ryan called out.

Again, no answer.

Ryan and I crept through the darkness, predators testing the air.

Sounds of emptiness. The refrigerator. The humidifier.

Cold, from the direction of the living room.

At the side hall Ryan reached out and flicked the switch. Motioning me to stay put, he made a hard right and disappeared. Lights went on in the bedroom, the bath, the study.

No one bolted. No one rushed past me. Ryan’s movements were the only sounds.

Backtracking to the main hall, Ryan moved forward and probed the kitchen, then the living room. In seconds he reappeared.

“Clean.”

I took my first real breath since entering the apartment.

Seeing my terror, Ryan reengaged the safety and holstered his gun, then wrapped his arms around me.

“Someone cut the glass in the French door.”

“But the alarm?” My voice sounded stretched and quavery, like an overused cassette.

“Wasn’t breached. Do you have a motion detector?”

“Disabled.”

I felt Ryan’s chin tap the crown of my head.

“Birdie kept triggering the damn thing,” I said defensively.

“What the hell?”

Ryan and I turned. Anne was standing in the doorway, Mace aloft, eyes wide.

“Bienvenue à Montréal,”
said Ryan.

Anne’s brows shot skyward.

“He’s a cop,” I said.

“Serve and protect,” Ryan said.

Anne lowered brows and Mace. “My kind of community policing.”

Ryan released me and I made introductions.

Hearing voices, Birdie fired from the bedroom and raced a figure eight around my ankles, fur erect with agitation.

“Detective Ryan would be the ‘sort of’ referred to at dinner?” Anne floated one brow in query.

“Someone’s been in here,” I said, shooting her a “not now” look.

“Holy shit,” Anne said, crunching into the foyer.

As Ryan phoned burglary, Anne and I assessed the damage.

While the French door pane had been cleanly cut, without damage to the security-system trip wires, glass had been shattered in the foyer, dining room, and bathroom mirrors, and in every picture frame in the place. Fragments glittered from furniture, sinks, countertops, and floors.

A few books and papers had been tossed here and there, but otherwise, the main living areas were unharmed.

In contrast, the bedrooms were chaos. Bed pillows were shredded, drawers pulled out and upended, closets ransacked.

A hasty inventory turned up two losses. Anne’s digital camera. Anne’s laptop. Otherwise, nothing seemed to be missing.

“Thank God,” said Anne, drawing out the deity’s name.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, gesturing lamely at her belongings.

Tossing the jewelry pouch onto the dresser, Anne shot out a hip and placed a hand on it. “Guess the little pricks didn’t care for Tom Turnip’s taste in gems.”

 

 

It took an hour to do the paperwork. The officers promised that crime scene would check for prints, shoe impressions, and tool marks in the morning.

Anne and I thanked them. No one had much enthusiasm. We all knew that her belongings had disappeared into the black hole of petty theft.

Ryan stayed. Perhaps to inspire diligence on the part of the CUM. Perhaps to buoy my flagging spirits.

When the cops had gone, Ryan offered his place as refuge. I looked at Anne. She shook her head no. Her eyes told me the adrenaline was yielding to the alcohol.

Anne and I did some rough cleanup while Ryan went in search of duct tape, cardboard, and plastic. When he returned, we watched him construct a temporary patch on the French door. Then Anne excused herself and disappeared into the bathroom.

Watching Ryan drop the extra tape into a paper bag, I realized I hadn’t a clue why he’d come.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I began.

“No thanks required.”

“I’ve been so caught up in this” — I waved an arm at the mess behind me — “circus, I haven’t even asked why you stopped by.”

Ryan laid the bag on the coffee table, straightened, and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his face softened, he brushed hair from my cheek, and his hand went back to my shoulder.

When I thought I could bear his silence no longer, he spoke.

“I’m going to be scarce for a while.”

Stomach clutch. Here it comes. The end of the end.

“I can’t go into details, but it’s big — CUM, SQ, RCMP, even the Americans are involved. Op’s been under way for several months.”

A moment went by before I got it.

“You’re talking about a police sting?”

“Claudel’s in, so’s Charbonneau. I’m not compromising anything by telling you that.”

My mind was just not forming the links.

“Why
are
you telling me that?”

“Claudel’s lack of interest in your pizza bones. I know it’s been grinding at you.”

“You’ll be away?”

“It’s not what I want.” The hint of a smile. “Comes with the glamour and the big bucks.”

I looked down at my hands.

“I hate to leave you alone with this.”

“I didn’t call for backup, Ryan. You dropped in.”

“I don’t like the look of this, Tempe.” Ryan’s voice was gentle.

“It’s not a big deal.”

I could feel cobalt eyes roving my features.

“I’m requesting stepped-up surveillance.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Ryan raised my chin with one finger.

“I’m not sure what went down here, but I intend to find out.”

“It’s a pissant B and E.”

The finger went to my lips.

“Think about it. What was taken? What was left behind? Why the slick entry, then all the smashed glass?”

Ryan squeezed my hands in his, a gesture intended to calm. Instead, it increased my agitation.

“I really would like to stay, Tempe.”

I searched his face, hoping for words that would comfort. Instead Ryan released me and slipped into his jacket. Grabbing the tape, he reached out, touched my cheek, and was gone.

I stood a moment, pondering his comment.

Stay what, Andrew Ryan? The course? The night? Cool? Free?

Not a sound from the bathroom. Not a sound from the study. Anne’s light was off.

After cranking up the heat, I checked the lock on every door and window, set the alarm, and tested the phone. Then I headed toward my room.

I hadn’t noticed earlier. As I crossed the threshold, it drew my attention like some malignant phantom.

My legs gridlocked in shock at the macabre outrage above my bed.

 

11

 

“N
O
!”

Rushing forward, I jumped onto the bed, yanked a long, jagged shard from the painting above the headboard, and hurled it to the far side of the room.

Glass shattered. Fragments bounced from the wall and dropped onto others swept to the baseboard during our hasty cleanup.

“You low-life son of a bitch!”

My heart hammered. Tears burned the backs of my lids.

Stripping off my clothes, I flung them one by one after the shard. Then I threw myself under the covers, naked and trembling.

As an entering freshman at UVA, Katy chose a studio arts major. Her interest was short-lived, but during that brief blossoming, my daughter was as passionate about
les beaux arts
as any Montmartre aspirant. In one semester she produced four prints, fourteen drawings, and six oils, her style a lyrical blend of fauvist gaudiness and Barbizon realism.

On my fortieth, my only-born presented me with a Katy Petersons oil original, a raucous Matisse-meets-Rousseau interpretation of a Charlottesville hillside. I treasure that canvas. It is one of the few possessions I have transported from Carolina to Quebec to make a home out of my condo. Katy’s landscape is my last sight as I pull back the covers each night, and regularly catches my eye whenever I move through the room.

Why couldn’t you just take whatever it was you wanted? Why ruin Katy’s painting? Why ruin my daughter’s beautiful goddamned painting?

I squeezed my eyelids, too angry to cry, too angry not to. My fingers bunched and rebunched the blanket.

Minutes clicked by.

One.

Two.

Tears trickled to my temples.

Three.

Four.

Eventually, my breathing steadied and my death grip on the blanket relaxed.

I opened my eyes to blackness, and the soft orange glow of the clock radio. I stared at the digits, willing back rational thought.

Eventually, the anger abated. I began picking apart the mosaic of the last three hours.

What had gone on here? Had Anne and I merely interrupted a burglary in progress, or had we climbed into something more sinister? B and E didn’t figure.

Again, my fingers grip-locked. A stranger had violated my personal space.

Who? A very selective thief looking for particular items of value? A junkie looking for anything that could be fenced to fund a buy? Thrill-seeking kids?

Why? Most important, why the gratuitous violence?

I remembered Ryan’s words.

What was stolen?

Anne’s laptop and camera.

What was wrong there?

The jewelry case had been in full view. It contained items of value and was portable. Why not take that? The TV? The DVD player? Less portable. My laptop? In the excitement of Anne’s arrival, I’d left it in the trunk of my car.

Had the intruder been spooked before scoring the good stuff? Not likely. He had taken the time to break things. Assuming it was a he. Gratuitous damage is more characteristic of the male of the species.

The main door was open when we arrived. The courtyard doors were locked from the inside. Escape through the French doors would have necessitated scaling the backyard fence.

So? That’s how he’d come in. Had the front door been opened simply for the effect when I returned? Had Bird been thrown out or had he bolted through the French door when things were being smashed?

I rolled over. Punched the pillow. Rolled back.

Why so much damage? Where were my neighbors? Had no one heard the noise?

Was Ryan right? Was the episode more than a simple B and E? Burglars work in silence.

Why cut cleanly through the French door then smash mirrors and pictures?

Why mutilate the painting?

Another blast of anger.

Was the act a threat? A warning?

If so, to whom? Me? Anne?

From whom? One of my schizoid crazies? A random schizoid crazy? Anne’s buddy from the plane?

BOOK: Monday Mourning
10.43Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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