Fit to Kill (6 page)

“Casey,” said Casey.

“One pound is a beginning,” said Emma after Pope had gone off. “The main thing is, how do you feel?”

“I feel fine.”

He wanted to ask her out. There was an Irish movie playing, but while he was waiting for the words to come, she had moved on to one of the machines.

Pope told him later that the police had doubled their evening patrols. Black-booted plainclothesmen hung out on the Denman and Davie restaurant strips. Pope said he was sure that some of the extra people working out in the gym were cops. They probably were. Pope knew everybody.

Later that evening Casey walked through the rain to Granville Street to see the Irish film. It was still raining when he got out. He dropped into O'Doul's Bar on Robson for a beer. Then he walked home.

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2

Casey enjoyed a morning cup of tea with Matty in her kitchen as they talked about the murders.

“Do you think the police will ever catch him, Casey?”

“He's sure to make a mistake eventually, and when he does…”

“I hope so. I hope it will be soon. Those poor women.”

“Thanks for the tea, Matty.”

Roseanne Agostino finished her workout a few minutes before the gym was about to close. Her black cotton-polyester tights were damp with sweat, as well as the matching bra top and the bare midriff that showed off her tiny waist.

She would be thirty-two next week, and she felt better than she had at twenty.

She hurried downstairs and sweated in the sauna for ten minutes, then showered. She stepped out of the shower and eyed her glistening body in the mirror. Slim and tight. She planned to keep it that way. Her thighs were a tad on the thick side, she knew, but it was solid muscle, every bit of it. No fat. Took after her mother—good peasant stock. Strong like a horse. But her mother's body had gone to fat years ago, and now her thighs and rump were enormous. Roseanne wasn't about to let that happen to her. She stayed away from junk food and worked out whenever she could. Usually four or five times a week, sometimes six if her boss didn't make her work weekends.

Roseanne's boyfriend, Gary, who drove a Coca Cola truck, went ape when she danced for him. He loved her tiny waist and muscled thighs—her hourglass figure, as he called it.

“Beam me up, Scotty!” he'd yelled last Friday night at her place when she did a slow strip for him and danced nude. It felt like she was dancing only for herself. Like he wasn't even there, mouth open, tongue hanging out like a Doberman's. Begging her to lie down with him. Which Roseanne loved to do. But she also loved to keep him waiting and waiting until he could take it no more. Until he finally grabbed her and gave it to her, which was fine for him but was over way too soon as far as she was concerned. Like last Friday. As soon as it was over, he'd wanted to know if she had any potato chips in the cupboard.

Men were one of life's major disappointments.

She dressed, stuffed her damp things into her gym bag and headed out, walking down Denman Street. The rain had stopped. When she got to Comox, she turned east up the hill to Nicola, where it was quiet. She had only a short distance to go. Along Nicola to Pendrell, and then her studio apartment was on Broughton, just one block farther up the hill. She lived alone, which was the way she liked it. Even if it did mean only having a tiny place with no proper bedroom and having to manage all the rent herself. Gary stayed weekends sometimes, but she was always glad when he was gone so she could have the apartment to herself again. He often took her to his place in the east end, near Commercial Drive. A grotty attic room decorated with stolen street signs and Penthouse centerfolds and smelling of stale cigarettes and bad hygiene. She didn't like it, preferring the West End and her own place to his.

Thinking of Gary's place made her feel a bit depressed. Maybe what depressed her was not having a man she really needed in her life. Someone who was strong and quiet and serious. Not like Gary, who talked too much about silly things. He was always complaining about his job and about his boss, who nagged him for not taking care of his truck.

The kind of man she needed would have a good solid job and be affectionate. They would read and discuss books. Gary never read books. If he kissed her, it was because he wanted her in bed. The man she needed would love her. He would get pleasure out of brushing her hair sometimes, when she felt like it, and rubbing her tired muscles after she'd slaved on her feet all day at Eaton's. And he'd be thoughtful, bringing her little unexpected things. She loved surprises. Gary wasn't thoughtful, unless it was himself he was thinking about.

She wasn't getting any younger and hadn't yet met a man she wanted to marry. Most women were married by thirty. The ones she knew, at least. They had a couple of babies and a home with a two-car garage in Richmond or Port Moody. Or, if their husbands had good jobs, a rancher on the side of the mountain in North Vancouver. Maybe she should try changing her job. The only people she ever met in Women's Wear were women. She could try waiting tables again. Get a job in one of the better downtown restaurants where people treated you nice and the tips were good. She could join a hiking club like the North Shore Walkers, which was a great way to meet new people. At least that was what Louise, her friend at work, said. And she should know, because she'd met her Tommy that way. They were engaged to be married in June.

That was the solution. She needed to change her life. She was still young. She was attractive and healthy, with a good figure and good prospects for the future. All she needed to do was make it all happen.

She walked quickly, anxious to get off the dark street. She would take her
People
magazine to bed with her. There was an article about Sandra Bullock she was looking forward to reading.

Built as a traffic barrier to keep commuters out of the residential streets, the minipark at Nicola where it joined Pendrell had benches and a table with seats set among trees and ornamental shrubs. There were many of these tiny squares scattered about in the dense jungle of West End apartment blocks. Places where people could sit outside with their friends and neighbors among the rhododendrons and japonica in the spring and summer.

Tonight the little square was wet, deserted and cold. Thick with shadows and menace. The streetlight caused wet tree branches to glisten. The saturated air seemed full of risk. As Roseanne approached the square, she thought she heard heavy breathing. She stopped and looked about her. The street was deserted. She listened, but all she could hear was the faint hum of Denman Street traffic. This section was very dark, the light from the streetlamps dimmed by the limbs of naked trees. What little light there was glimmered palely yellow and weak, hardly able to penetrate the gloom.

She was less than a block away from home.

She started running past the square and knew suddenly that someone was behind her.

She ran faster, sprinting now, too scared to look behind.

Only half a block. She had to make it, or…

Roseanne felt her shoulder gripped from behind.

She screamed and fell to the ground. A rough hand jammed her jaw shut, and she felt and heard the crackle of duct tape as her attacker pressed and wrapped it tightly around her mouth, silencing her. She tried to twist away, kicking and thrashing about with all the strength of her strong legs. But he handcuffed her wrists behind her back and dragged her into the trees where he pinned her to the wet soil.

The man was very strong. He sat on her and mumbled madly as he pressed her face into the wet leaves and knifed the clothing from her trembling body.

The rain started again in the night. In the gray light of early morning, a jogger on his way to Stanley Park cut through the mini-park and stumbled over Roseanne's bare legs sticking out from under a hydrangea bush.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MONDAY, DECEMBER 4

I
n December, Vancouver's West End folded its paws and crouched, drawing into itself, and watched almost constant rain and wind sweeping in from an inhospitable sea. It watched its forest neighbor toss its head wildly in winter storms. Watched and endured. And waited for the spring.

This December, the West End drew into itself even more than usual. A homicidal maniac was on the rampage. The shock of suddenly having to confront the grim reality of a serial killer was almost too much for it.

There had now been three killings—all women, all raped, all decapitated.

People stayed home. The evening streets were deserted. Even Robson, Denman and Davie, normally teeming with pedestrians, were sparsely populated. Store owners predicted that, unless shoppers changed their habits and shopped during the day, it would be their worst Christmas season ever.

Wexler got the official news at Cop Shop. The mood later at the
Clarion
was somber. An early jogger had discovered the naked, headless body of victim number three on Sunday morning. So far there was no id.

“Three weeks before Christmas,” said Wexler gloomily.

Casey said, “Peace on Earth.”

“And goodwill to all,” said Wexler.

“Especially women,” said Ozeroff, tears in her eyes.

Matty Kayle had been reading about Listeria and Clostridium botulinum and Escherichia coli. Such difficult words, but she was beginning to think that bacteria seemed her most natural allies. The natural solution might be the best solution.

Some of the other solutions, according to the book, like arsenic and strychnine, had too many drawbacks. Not the least of which was the danger of an autopsy and the discovery of a lethal poison in the body.

Having decided on the method, Matty resolved to execute her plan swiftly. Now was the time for action.

What had helped rouse Matty into action was Albert's criticism yesterday of her cooking. It was Thursday evening. He had hurt her. If there was one thing she was proud of, it was her cooking. He had no right, after all these years of waiting on him hand and foot, to say suddenly that her cooking was like “something a dog might drag in off the street.”

His exact words.

Matty had to sit down. She couldn't answer him. He had never criticized her cooking before. It had the effect on her of a personal attack. As if it were she herself who was flawed. All she could say was, “What?”

“This!” He pushed his plate away. The Greek moussaka casserole that had taken so long to prepare. His face was furrowed with anger, worm lips pink and wet, pouting and wriggling. “It's inedible. I'm sick to death of foul recipes from foreign cookbooks. I mean, what in heaven's name do you call this mess? Chinese dogshit? Japanese roadkill? What?”

“It's Greek—”

“I thought as much. Foreign filth. Whatever happened to plain grilled chops with new potatoes? Or a nice piece of steak with chips? Boiled ham, cabbage and beets? Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? You haven't cooked a proper meal in more than a year.”

Matty had changed her style of cooking, she had to admit. But she thought he'd liked it. The articles in
Canadian Woman
stressed the importance of good nutrition. Less fat and more legumes and vegetables. Less meat, or even no meat at all, but tofu or beans instead.

She was so upset she cried.

This made Albert even angrier. He stood and hurled his plate over her head. Plate and food hit the wall with a crash.

She was terrified. She thought he would strike her. But he stomped off down to the basement. When she was finished crying, she set to cleaning the mess off the wall and floor.

Very well. If that was what he wanted, it was back to the grilled pork chops. Except this time she would leave the chops out on a plate in the oven where he wouldn't see them and where they could breathe for a while, like wine, until they were ready.

Until her bacterial accomplices had brewed their poison.

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5

During lunch at Hegel's, Wexler filled Casey in.

“She was Roseanne Agostino, white, thirty-two, sales clerk at Eaton's, unmarried. Lived alone in a studio walk-up on Broughton. On her way home from the fitness center when she met up with her killer. Same mo: handcuffed, raped, clothes missing, head missing.”