A Killing Spring (4 page)

“Is she there now?”

“No, but she was. I tried to talk her out of coming. I thought it would be easier on her if she waited until they took her husband down to pathology at the hospital, but the lady was insistent.”

“So she saw him there.”

“Yeah, in all his glory.”

“How did she take it?”

“Weirdly. Not that there’s any rule about how to react when you see your dead husband decked out in leather and lace, but I would have thought it’d be a sight to grab a wife’s attention.”

“And it didn’t grab Julie’s?”

“Not for long. Jo, did you notice this afternoon how quickly she zeroed in on the question of whether Gallagher was alone when he died?”

“Yes.”

“What did you make of it?”

“The obvious. I thought Julie was afraid Reed was having an affair.”

“That seemed to be her focus while she was here, too. We’d already sealed the scene, so she couldn’t get past the threshold, but she kept leaning in, looking around. One of the ident officers asked if he could help, but she just shook her head and kept on looking.”

“What do you think she thought she’d find?”

“Given her concern this afternoon about whether Gallagher was alone when his body was discovered, I would guess that she thought she might find some evidence of his sexual partner.”

“Poor Julie,” I said. “She and Reed seemed so happy at the wedding, but apparently they really did have problems. The young woman they’d hired to cater their party told me Reed called her last night and said the dinner was cancelled.”

Alex’s voice was tight with interest. “Did she give you the time when he called?”

“No, but you can check. Her name is Polly Abbey and her company’s called Abbey Road Catering – it’s on Dewdney.”

“Got it,” he said. Then he paused. “Jo, am I missing something here? When we were at the Gallaghers’ today, didn’t you get the impression that the party was still on?”

“Yes, because it was. Polly Abbey said Julie called her last night to re-book. Maybe that’s what Julie and Reed fought about.”

“Maybe,” he said wearily. “Or maybe they fought over the fact that she didn’t share his sexual tastes. When it comes to domestic disputes, causes are never in short supply.”

“Do you know anything more about what happened to Reed?”

“Splatter says that, judging from the condition of the body, Gallagher died last night.”

“Who’s Splatter?”

“Sorry, he’s our M.E. – the medical examiner. His real name is Sherman Zimbardo. The guys call him Splatter because he’s got this uncanny ability to interpret blood patterns at a crime scene.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

“Actually, I think the guys see the nickname as a kind of compliment. Anyway, Zimbardo says he should have more solid information about how Reed Gallagher died after he’s completed the autopsy. Till then, we’re just calling it a suspicious death.”

“Which means …?”

“Which means that we don’t know what happened, but there are enough loose ends to keep us interested for a while. Zimbardo says he’s seen a couple of cases like this.”

“You mean with the hood and the cord?”

“Yeah. Apparently, they indicate a particular type of autoeroticism.”

“Sex play on your own.”

“Right. How did you know that?”

“I took Greek and Latin at school.”

“Fair enough. Anyway, this particular variation of auto-eroticism is called … wait a minute, the name’s in my notes … it’s called hypoxyphilia. Did you cover that in class?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. It’s a dangerous business. The people who practise it apparently find sex more interesting when they cut off their oxygen. Every so often the fun and games get out of hand, then we have to cut them down.”

“That doesn’t make sense to me.”

“It doesn’t appeal to me much either.”

“I didn’t mean the kinkiness. I meant that I don’t understand why a man like Reed Gallagher would have a fight with his wife and decide that the next step was to hop in the car, drive downtown to a rooming house, and go through some sort of bizarre masturbation ritual.”

“Zimbardo’s done some reading on the subject. He says people who are into hypoxyphilia claim that it’s a great stress-reliever.”

“I think I’ll stick to single-malt Scotch.” I said. “And from what I’d seen of Reed Gallagher, I would have thought that would be his solution, too.”

“The leather and lace doesn’t sound to you like something he’d do?”

“No,” I said, “Reed always struck me as a man who coped with life head-on.”

“But you didn’t know him well.”

“No,” I said. “Not well at all.” Just then I heard the call-waiting signal. “Alex, could you hang on? I’ve got a beep.”

At first, all I heard on the other line was music and party sounds. Then there was giggling, and Kellee Savage said, “Can you hear them singing? Well, they don’t have as much reason to sing as I do.” Her words were slurred. It was obvious that she’d been drinking, but I’d had enough. Birthday or no, Kellee Savage was going to have to find somebody else to play with.

“Kellee, I’ll have to talk to you later. I have an important call on the other line.”

“This is an important call,” she said belligerently. “I’ve figured it all out. Exactly why he’s after me all the time. Here’s what’s happening …”

“Kellee, I really have to go. If you want to talk to me, come to my office Monday morning.” I clicked off, but not before I heard someone in the bar begin to sing “Danny Boy.”

When I apologized for keeping him waiting, Alex’s voice was easy. “It’s okay,” he said. “I was just remembering the Gallaghers’ wedding.”

“I would have thought you’d want to excise that from your memory.”

“It wasn’t that bad, Jo. At least nobody called me Chief. Anyway, the whole thing just seems so sad now. I keep thinking about those birds they had on the wedding cake.”

“The doves,” I said. “They were made of sugar. It’s been years since I’ve seen any that weren’t made of plastic.”

“Julie Gallagher made them herself,” Alex said. “She told me she couldn’t find a store in town that sold them.”

“That’s Julie for you. Always gilding her own lily.”

“I don’t think it was that,” Alex said softly. “Mrs. Gallagher told me there was an old wives’ tale that every sugar dove on a wedding cake brought a year of happiness, and she wanted to make sure that she and her husband had a lifetime-full.”

Despite my sad mood, dinner that night was fun. Angus’s new girlfriend, Leah Drache, had a good head on her shoulders and a knack for smoothing over raw edges. Leah also had, according to Taylor, who had asked, thirteen separate body piercings. I’d seen the seven on Leah’s ears, the two on her left eyebrow, the one through her right nostril, and the one in her navel. As we drank our green milkshakes and listened to Toad the Wet Sprocket, I tried not to think about the location of the other two.

When we started to clear off the table, Taylor stayed at her place, staring out into the night. I went back and sat beside her. “Penny for your thoughts, T,” I said.

Her voice was small and sad. “I wish you didn’t have to go out tonight.”

“So do I. But a book launch is a special thing. It’s a lot of work to write a book, and the man who wrote this one is Jill’s boyfriend.”

“Is he nice?”

I pointed towards the garage. “Look at the size of that branch the wind blew down. I’ll bet Angus could cut it up and make a good scratching post for Benny.”

Angus, who knew I didn’t like Tom Kelsoe, turned from the sink where he was scraping his plate and gave me a sidelong smile. “Nice feint, Mum.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That means a lot coming from the master-feinter.” I gave Taylor a quick hug. “Okay, kiddo, it’s time for me to grab a shower and get dressed. The sooner I get there, the sooner I get home.”

The phone on my nightstand rang just as I’d finished undressing. I ignored it and continued into the bathroom. As soon as I turned on the shower, Angus hollered, “It’s for you!” I grabbed a towel and swore. The law of averages that day pointed towards a bad-news phone call.

Kellee Savage didn’t even bother to say hello. “I’ve got proof,” she said. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything till it was all checked, but I can’t find him, so what’s the point of waiting?” She enunciated each syllable carefully, confirming to herself and to the world that she was still sober. In the background I could hear laughter, but there was no mirth in Kellee’s voice.

“Kellee, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Who is it that you can’t find?”

“That’s confidential, and a good journalist honours
confidences.” For a beat she was silent, then she said sulkily, “And a good journalist knows when to get the story out. I don’t care if he thinks I should wait. It’s my story, and I’m getting it out. In fact, I’m coming to your house right now to tell you what’s happening. You’ll be sorry you didn’t believe me.”

“Kellee, it’s a rotten night. You’ll feel a lot better tomorrow if you just go back to your own place and go to bed.”

“I don’t wanna go to bed. It’s my birthday. I’m s’posed to get my way. I have a birthday song. My mum made it up when I was little. ‘Oh Kellee girl, today is your birthday and smiles and fun will last the whole day long.’ ” She fell silent. “I forget the rest.”

“Kellee, please. Call a cab and go home.”

“Can’t,” she said. “I’m a journalist. Got to get the story out. Besides I used up all my quarters phoning you.”

“I’ll call the taxi for you. Just tell me where you are.”

She snorted. “Oh no, you don’t. I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to stop me. He probably called and warned you that I’m dangerous.” She giggled. “Well, I am dangerous. You know why? Because I’m a journalist, and if we’re good, we’re dangerous.” There was a long silence, and I wondered if she’d passed out. But as luck would have it, she rallied. “Stay tuned,” she slurred, then she slammed down the receiver so hard, it hurt my eardrum.

I walked back to the bathroom, stepped into the shower stall, lifted my face towards the shower head and turned the water on full force. It was going to take a real blast to wash away the last three hours.

Tom Kelsoe’s book launch was being held at the university Faculty Club on the second floor of College West. I’d been to some great parties there, but as I walked through the door that night, I knew this wasn’t going to be one of them. Real shamrocks and shillelaghs that looked as if they could be real were everywhere, but the mood was sombre. The lounge to the right of the entrance area was jammed. Ordinarily, guests picked up their drinks at the bar and drifted into one of the larger rooms; that night, people weren’t drifting. It was apparent from their pale and anxious faces that the news of Reed Gallagher’s death had spread, and that the rumours were swirling.

Several of the people I’d left messages for that afternoon spotted me in the doorway and came over. They were full of questions, but I hid behind Alex’s statement that, until the police had finished their investigations, Reed’s death was being classified as accidental. It wasn’t a satisfactory answer, but no one seemed to have the heart to press me.

I made my way through to the bar and ordered Glenfiddich
on the rocks. When it came, I took a long sip; the warmth spreading through my veins felt so good, I took another.

“There are times when only single-malt Scotch will do.” The voice behind me was throaty and familiar.

“And this is one of them,” I said. “Care to join me?”

Jill Osiowy scrutinized my glass longingly. “Tom and I are off hard liquor,” she said.

I turned to face her. There was no denying that the abstemious life agreed with her. I’d hedged when Taylor asked me about my feelings for Tom, but even I had to admit that the effect he was having on her lifestyle was a positive one. In the years I had known her, Jill had been a workaholic: routinely putting in fourteen-hour workdays, subsisting on junk food, too busy to exercise, and too tense at the end of the day to unwind without a couple of stiff drinks.

Tom Kelsoe had changed all that. He was into vegetarianism and weight training, and now so was she. She had never been heavy, but now she was very lean and muscular. Her auburn hair was cut in a fashionable new way that made her look ten years younger. She was wearing black lace-up boots, form-fitting black velvet pants, and an extravagantly beautiful jade jacket with a black mandarin collar and elaborate black fastenings.

“You look like about seven million dollars,” I said.

“I feel like homemade shit.”

“Where’s Tom?”

“At the gym,” she said. “He says he has a lot of stuff to get through. Reed was his first boss when he got out of J school. He was like a father to Tom.”

“How much does Tom know about what happened?”

“Just what I told him, and I got that from you.” She shook her head in a gesture of disbelief. “Jo, what did happen?”

I started to tell her what I knew. Then, over her shoulder, I saw Ed Mariani bobbing towards us. He was a portly and
pleasant man, my favourite, by far, of the faculty at the School of Journalism. Earlier in the semester, I’d sat in on his lectures on the Politics of Image, and I’d understood why there were always waiting lists for the courses he taught. He was passionate about his subject, and while he was demanding with his students, he was genuinely excited about their response to what they were learning. In and out of class, Ed was fun, and, under normal circumstances, he would have been exactly the man I wanted to chat to at a party. But these were not normal circumstances.

I grabbed Jill’s arm. “Come on,” I said. “It’ll be easier to talk in the hall.”

Ed Mariani’s face fell when he saw us leaving, but I didn’t relent. Julie Evanson-Gallagher had leached me of charity. Jill and I walked to the end of the corridor and found an alcove where we wouldn’t be spotted by latecomers. There, I told her everything I knew about Reed Gallagher’s death.

Jill had worked in the media for twenty years; she had more than a nodding acquaintance with the tragic and the bizarre, but she stiffened as I described the scene the police had found in the room on Scarth Street. When I finished, she seemed dazed. Finally she said, “I have to get back inside. When Tom comes, he’ll want me there.”