Fit to Kill (7 page)
Casey shook his head. “How did the cops id her so fast?”
“Her folks live in New Westminster. They'd been calling her all weekend. When they hadn't reached her by Monday night, they called the police. They made the id from childhood burn scars on her hands and arms.”
Ozeroff was unusually quiet.
They began to cobble together a lead story for their Thursday edition. Percy, in the meantime, had Ozeroff interview women in the shopping areas, asking their opinions about the murders. Whether they thought the police were doing their best to catch the killer. When all the stories were in the works, Percy went with Casey and Wexler's “Terror in the Streets” headline over Duchesne's murder simulation, a picture of a woman's bare legs protruding from under a hydrangea bush. “It's film noir,” Duchesne explained to Percy.
The papers hit the streets early Thursday morning, as usual. But what was unusual was how quickly they were all snatched up. By late afternoon, a harassed Brenda was madly fielding complaints at the front counter. Hoarsely explaining to irate callers that there were no further copies of the paper available.
So much of the success of the news business, Casey thought, seemed built on the misfortunes of others.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 8
C
asey quit work early, donned raingear and took a walk on the seawall, his mind clenched on the three murders.
A light oyster-gray rain laid a mist over the beach and the ocean. The freighters anchored offshore looked like ghost ships, their riding lights flickering in the gloom.
Casey thought about dates.
Murder dates.
Julia Dagg was butchered on Monday, November 6. Corinne Wakabayashi thirteen days later, on Sunday, November 19. Roseanne Agostino thirteen days later, on Saturday, December 2.
If the killer kept to his thirteen-day timetable, then the next murder, if there was one, would be on Friday, December 15.
One week from now.
He told Jack Wexler.
Jack called his buddy Detective Sergeant Fraser in homicide.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 9
Emma Shaughnessy asked Casey if he would walk her home from the gym when they were through. “It's this damned killer,” she said. “I'm only five blocks away, but I'd feel safer with an Irishman.”
“I'd be happy to see you home.”
She felt safe with this quiet man. There was something about his blue eyes, lazy smile and rumpled appearance that invited confidence and trust. She was sure that Casey would understand her need for what it was: safety and protection. Simple friendship. He would expect no favors and imagine no subtext, of that she felt certain.
It was raining, as usual.
Emma said, “This rain would wash the ears off a donkey, aren't I right?”
“A cup of coffee might warm you.”
“I don't drink coffee at night. But Devlin's tea would be good.”
“Devlin's it is then.”
They found a table. Casey brought coffee for himself and tea for Emma. Emma had to listen carefully over the loud buzz of conversation, for Casey spoke quietly, never raising his voice.
“How are your colleagues at school taking these murders?” he asked.
“Just as you'd expect,” she said. “The women leave the school as soon as the three o'clock bell rings. Home before dark. What do you know about this latest murder?”
“Nothing really, except she was killed on the thirteenth day, just like the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was playing with the numbers and noticed that each of the three murders is thirteen days apart.”
“There's a murder every thirteen days?”
“Looks like it so far.”
“Do the police know this?”
“I told Wexler, who told his police friend.”
“So now they know. Did they know before Wexler told them?”
“They didn't say.”
“Do you know why it's always the thirteenth day?”
Casey shook his head. “No idea.”
He walked her home through the wind and the rain to her apartment at Killarney Place.
“Thanks, Casey,” she said with a grateful smile. She didn't ask him in.
The Quiet Man, she thought as she watched him walk off in the rain.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 15
It was almost as though the killer had been reading Casey's mind. An open letter to the police appeared in Friday's morning's
Province:
Maggoty:
A word from the Angel of Death
I am chosen to destroy, to kill and to cause to
perish upon the thirteenth day all women which
are harlots. Esther 3:12.
T
oday was the day.
She was ready.
The meat was pink and angry-looking toward the center. When she held it under her nose and sniffed, there was definitely a nasty odor. Thousands of nasty bacteria marching about in the bloody fibers of the pork. Though perhaps marching was the wrong word. Exploding might be more like it because, according to her library book, Clostridium botulinum was a sporulating bacillus, like mushroom spores exploding. Albert would swallow them down in the spoiled meat. Once they invaded his bloodstream, still sporulating like fireworks, Matty supposed, they would cause neurological and vision problems, fatigue, vomiting, diarrhea and death.
According to the book.
Today was Sunday, Albert's birthday. Not that they ever wished each other happy birthdays anymore. For years, birthdays had come and gone with zero recognition, like Christmas and Easter. But Albert would be getting Clostridium botulinum for his birthday this year. And by tonight or tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest, Matty would be living alone in her own home once again.
She popped the two chops into the oven.
A short time later, they sat down to dinner. She served Albert his chops covered in apple sauce.
She watched him brandish knife and fork.
That was when she knew she couldn't do it.
As much as she longed for freedom, and for the house to belong to her again, she simply could not go through with it.
Albert started cutting into his chop.
She wanted him dead and gone, but she was not a murderer.
She threw down her knife and fork with a loud clatter that caused Albert to wince.
He stopped sawing at his chop and stared at her.
“This meat isn't right. I had my suspicions when I put it under the grill, but now I'm certain.” She reached over and whisked Albert's plate away from him.
“What!”
“The meat's off. No sense in making ourselves sick.” Before he could protest further, she quickly scraped the food off both plates into the garbage. “You can't be too careful with pork. Wait till I see that butcher at the market! I'll give him what for! I'll do you some scrambled eggs instead. You like those. And we can still eat the vegetables.”
His face was red. He stood and hurled his napkin onto the table. His voice loaded with loathing and contempt, he said, “Call me when you decide that dinner is ready.”
Matty's legs felt wobbly. She took the knives and forks off the table, then gripped the counter and collapsed onto her high stool in the corner of the kitchen, trembling uncontrollably and weeping into the tea towel.
Rusty Carlson had always walked to the gym, only two blocks away. But nowadays she drove her car. A woman couldn't be too careful, not with a homicidal maniac in the West End. Lance had volunteered to escort her, but she told him she could manage perfectly well on her own. She hadn't got to where she was in life by depending on any man. Besides, Lance was hardly ever home in the evenings.
So three evenings a week, she took the elevator down from her Lagoon Drive penthouse apartment to her secured underground parking. She then drove her BMW a few blocks to the underground parking underneath the fitness center and rode the elevator up to the gym. And simply reversed the procedure when she had finished her workout. It was foolproof: not a single step onto the perilous street.
On Friday evening she drove out of her garage into torrential rain and wind. She turned on the wipers as she cleared the gate and headed for the fitness center.
Rusty Carlson hadn't become the president of
Canadian Woman
magazine by taking chances. She was a professional who had planned her career patiently and carefully. Making sacrifices, avoiding distractions and accepting success as her due after so many years of single-mindedness and hard work. Taking chances was the gambler's way of life. Rusty Carlson was no gambler.
She drove into the fitness center garage off Haro Street. Plenty of parking spaces. She picked a slot near the elevator.
All those years of sacrifice and hard work had paid off. Now that she had reached her goal, she was starting to take more time for fun and relaxation. She was starting to make changes and define her own personal lifestyle. Part of that new lifestyle was regular fitness workouts. Another part was her new love life, something she would prefer husband Lance to know nothing about.
The gym wasn't crowded, which was one of the advantages of coming in the late evening. The music was thumping away as usual. She did her stretches and warm-ups on the mats. Then she moved to the StairMaster and the weight machines. Content with her own thoughts, she seldom talked to anyone. If people spoke to her, she usually nodded, smiled politely and moved away.
Lance was a workaholic. Perhaps that was what had attracted them to each other ten years ago. They had both been studious and hardworking, serious about their futures. Lance now had his own software company. He loved the work. Computers were his passion. And he loved Rusty. At least she was pretty sure he did. And she loved him. She couldn't see, however, why this should be any reason to spoil her fun.
Sex with Lance had become a habit. Once a week, Saturday or Sunday night, but never both. He climbed on top to have his floppy disk scanned. Then with a few humps and pumps and wriggles of her internal hard drive, she downloaded his deposit, emptying him of his cache, and it was all over for another week.
“Say, would you mind spotting me a set?”
She turned. It was that beautiful muscular man. The one with the skimpy rag of a shirt, who always looked so preoccupied and serious. Doc, everyone called him. She followed behind, admiring his triangular back and firm buns.
He lay on the bench, chest under the barbell and feet on the floor. A position that had the effect of thrusting his lumped crotch into prominent relief. He gripped the bar with both hands and lifted it down over his chest ten times. Then he rattled it back into the rests with a loud groan. He stood and wiped his brow with a towel.
“Thanks.” He held out his hand. “Stanley Blunt. Everyone calls me Doc. Appreciate the spot.”
She ignored the hand. “Rusty Carlson.
You're quite welcome.”
She was not about to ask him why he was called Doc, because she didn't want to know. Doc indeed. My god! What a bod! Well endowed in all respects. What would he be like in bed?
She worked out for a little over an hour. Time to go. In the locker room, she peeled off her gloves, washed her hands and glanced in the mirror. Her new black exercise suit looked good on her. Skintight, it made her feel sexy. She had the figure for it, so why not show it off. Had Doc liked what he'd seen? She pulled her tracksuit on over her exercise suit. She never showered at the fitness center, preferring her own bathroom at home. Who knew what kinds of bugs and germs grew to maturity in public showers these days! TB was on the rise again because antibiotics no longer did the job. One would have to be a complete fool to take unnecessary risks. Just last month, Sandra, her health and fitness editor at the magazine, had run an article on the new “hot” diseases, Ebola virus and dengue fever. Their increasing ability to travel by airplane from Africa to North America in a matter of hours. Scary.
Rusty brushed her hair in the mirror, fogged slightly from the excess steam from the shower room. “Rusty” was actually a misnomer. Her hair was auburn, faded a bit now. And really no longer auburn, except for what her hairdresser coaxed from it. Her real name was Lorraine, but nobody had called her that since college. She moved her face closer to the mirror. She was thirty-nine and felt great. Still had her looks. Hadn't allowed her body to get sloppy. She thought about Bill Murchie and smiled into the mirror. Bill was her secret lover. They were planning to get away for some heavy-duty sex on Saltspring Island this weekend while Lance attended a software conference in San Francisco.
She'd met Bill in the elevator one afternoon riding down from her office on the top floor to the coffee shop on the ground. He was a handsome “suit” who got in at the fifteenth. With the elevator to themselves, he had smiled and introduced himself. He was with the firm of McBay and Katz. Had seen her around and thought she looked like an interesting woman. Could he buy her a coffee?
Soon it was, “Why don't you stop by my place for a drink on the way home?”