Fit to Kill (8 page)

His luxury apartment on Beach Avenue had a fine view of English Bay. Soon she found herself dropping in for a drink on the way home once a week, usually on a Friday, to relax and unwind.

She didn't love Bill, but he was the best thing to happen to her love life in a long while. This weekend she planned to turn the tables and tie him up for a change. Having all that power over him—what a total turn-on!

She headed for the elevator. With only a few cars in the parking garage, it was deserted and quiet. She slid in behind the wheel, started the car and drove out of the garage. The rain and wind were worse. The street was empty, with the Denman traffic lights swinging wildly in the high wind. She drove into the back lane that led to Lagoon Drive. Almost home.

The lane was dark.

“Stop here!”

The shock of the man's voice and his breath in her ear caused her to slam her foot on the brake. At the same time she felt, and saw in the rearview mirror, the long blade of a knife at her throat. She swooned with fright. A volcano erupted in her belly covering her thighs in a stream of urine.

“Drive slowly till I tell you to turn.”

She couldn't move her head without being cut with the knife. There was nobody in the lane. She took her foot off the brake, and the car rolled forward.

The West End killer.

The rain was slanting into the clunking wiper blades, and she was going to die.

No, she wasn't! Not without a fight. What if she floored the accelerator and sideswiped the concrete wall of an apartment building and then flung herself out the car door? She might be killed, but it was a chance, a risk. She could even race the car, slam it head-on into the side of a building and kill them both. Not a mere risk but almost certain death, ridding the world of a monster.

“Don't even think of it!” growled the voice behind her.

Her insides turned to custard.

“Drive into the park.”

She did as he ordered, driving slowly past the golf course, thinking furiously. The curb here was high. Beyond the curb there was a wire fence surrounding the golf course. Beyond that was a parking lot. Beyond the parking lot, there was a strip of forest before the drop onto the seawall. If she were going to do something, it would have to be here and now. If she drove into the deserted parking lot, he would tell her to stop and it would be all over for her.

She gathered her courage and stabbed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The powerful BMW leaped forward like an unleashed hound. She jerked the steering wheel. The tires hit the curb hard, but the car kept going, leaping over the curb and crashing into the fence with a scream of tortured metal. The BMW continued forward on the sidewalk, bucking and plunging, dragging chain-link fencing along with it into the parking lot.

The lot was empty. She hung onto the wheel, keeping her foot down on the gas pedal. The car crashed into a concrete divider and came to an abrupt stop. The seat belt held her. Fingers scrabbling, she couldn't get her door open, couldn't release the seat belt.

The wind howled.

She turned her head painfully and saw him coming over the seat at her.

The rain drummed steadily on the roof of the car like a dirge.

CHAPTER TEN

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16

“A
nother body this morning.” Jack Wexler's mournful tones sounded even more mournful over the phone.

“Where?”

“Stanley Park golf course.”

“Jaysus! That's four.” Casey, just back from his run in the park, was beginning to cool down and couldn't wait to soak in a hot shower.

“Body discovered at six this morning. Old man out walking his dog on the golf course. His dog was sniffing around something. He went to look. Same as usual, naked torso. Except the animals had been at it. Bit of a mess.”

“How'd you hear so soon, Jack?”

“Fraser called me.”

Detective Sergeant Fraser, Wexler's old buddy.

“You call Ozeroff ?”

“Not yet.” Wexler grunted and hung up.

Casey was no sooner out of the shower than his phone rang again. It was Ozeroff.

She was angry.

“Did you hear, Casey?”

“Yeah, Deb, I heard.”

“Goddamn maniac! Four women slaughtered and we can't do a thing about it!”

“Everyone feels helpless, Deb.”

“I'm supposed to write a piece on tonight's concert. I can't go out. I'm terrified. Vera's away at an acupuncture conference in Seattle.”

“Won't be another killing for thirteen days, Deb. You're safe.”

“Makes no difference. No woman is safe. I can't risk it.”

“Stay home, Deb. I'll cover for you. What kind of concert is it?”

“Vancouver Symphony. All Debussy. Orpheum Theater, eight o'clock.”

Casey groaned. “Any chance there's two seats? We could go together.”

“Shouldn't be a problem. You sure you don't mind?”

“It'll raise my cultural quotient.”

“You're a pal, Casey. I'm just sick about this latest killing.”

“Everyone's sick, Deb.”

MONDAY, DECEMBER 18

Casey and Ozeroff were working in their cramped office when Wexler arrived from Cop Shop.

“They got a make on number four,” he said. “Cops didn't even need to call Victoria for id. Her insurance papers were in the glove compartment of her car.”

“Who was she, Jack?” asked Casey.

“Lorraine Carlson, thirty-nine, magazine publisher, married, no kids, lived on Lagoon Drive, fitness center member. Car was swimming in blood.” Wexler sounded tired. “I tried to get a statement from the husband, but he's in a state of shock. Couldn't talk to me.”

Ozeroff leaned her elbows on her desk, head in hands.

“My turn this time,” said Emma Shaughnessy.

They pushed into Devlin's out of the rain and found a seat, sharing with another couple, two men.

She brought the drinks, coffee for him, steamed cider for herself, nodded at their companions and sat down.

“Do you usually go away at Christmas?” asked Casey.

“Christmas Day. To my cousin's family in Port Moody. You?”

He shook his head. Her dark brown hair had chestnut highlights, he noticed. It invited fingers. And looking into her eyes was like looking at a clear blue mountain lake. Or into a glacial crevasse, which he thought should have been a cold experience, but Emma's personality was warmth itself.

“Do you like Christmas?” she asked, flushing slightly under his scrutiny.

He shrugged. “You?”

“Parts of it I like. It's nostalgia really. What made you come to Canada, Casey?”

He shrugged again. “A Belfast bomb killed eight innocent victims in a shopping center. Three of them were my parents and my only sibling, a brother. His name was Eamon. I was twenty-five. Eamon was twenty-two. I should have been with them, but I was late. I decided I could no longer live in a city of barbarians.” He sipped his coffee. “What about you?”

“I came to the same conclusion. A Protestant bullet killed my kid sister in the crossfire on the main street of Derry. Annie was only seventeen.”

They sat in silence for a minute, remembering, thinking their own thoughts.

At Killarney Place, Casey watched Emma let herself into the lobby, then turn and wave.

He waved back and then headed home.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25

It rained on Christmas Day. The Wexlers had invited Casey to have dinner with them, Midge insisting that he come. But he had turned them down, telling a white lie about a previous engagement. He ate Christmas dinner alone, his preference— drunken prawns at the Thai House. He sat at his table for almost an hour after his meal, drinking Thai tea and reading Ozeroff 's Christmas gift,
Walking the Dog
, a collection of short stories by fellow Irishman Bernard MacLaverty. In this way he enjoyed his Christmas. No small talk, no dressing up, no false sentiment.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 27

Emma asked him if there was any news on the West End killer. They were in a crowded Devlin's, their wet raincoats hanging near the door.

“Nothing.”

“I read a report in your paper by Wexler— is that his name?”

He nodded. “Jack Wexler.”

“He mentions that all the victims are linked to the fitness center. They all worked out in the gym on the nights they were murdered. He thinks the killer could be a member who goes to the gym regularly.”

“It looks that way.”

“That's scary.”

Casey nodded.

Emma said, “Wexler interprets the words
flaunted her nakedness
in the killer's letter to refer to women's tights and bodysuits. Women who flaunt their bodies. Harlots.”

“Yes.”

“Well, there's one thing your friend Wexler fails to mention.”

“What's that?”

“The killer takes liberties with scripture. He uses several versions of the Bible—the King James, the New International and the New Revised Standard—because his quotation, the one printed in the paper, is a mixture of two or three versions. Understand what I mean?”

“He reads the different versions and then chooses the bits he likes best.”

“Right. He could have something like The New Layman's Parallel Bible, which compares several versions, all laid out on the page so you can see the differences. The second thing he does is, he edits scripture.”

“He leaves words out?”

“No, but he adds his own words.”

“He does?”

“Do you remember the bit ‘I will cut off her nose and her ears'?”

“I do.”

“Well, he adds, ‘and yea her very head.'”

“That isn't in Ezekiel?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. Tell Wexler he can check it for himself.”

“I'll tell him. Thanks.”

“I don't suppose knowing that the killer tampers with the written word will help much in catching him though.”

“He can pass it on to the police. You never know. Every little bit helps.”

Emma turned her head toward the window and gave a frightened gasp.

Casey followed her glance. Pope was outside, standing in the rain, his face pressed up against the window as he stared in at them. When he saw that they had seen him, he grinned, waved and hurried off.

Emma shivered. “He scared me.”

“Likes to joke around. He's okay.”

“I don't like him.”

They talked about Christmas.

“How was Christmas with your cousins in Port Moody?”

Emma smiled happily. “It was good. How was yours?”

“Quiet.”

“That's it?”

Casey smiled. “That's it.”

Emma smiled back at him, saying nothing for a while. Then she said, “You're a quiet man.”

“I am?”

“Yes.” Emma looked directly into his eyes. “You don't talk a lot.”

Casey smiled at her. “Don't have a lot to say, that's all. Drink up and I'll walk you home.”

When they got outside, a bitterly cold wind was sweeping up from English Bay and bringing the rain with it. They hurried across the road and around the corner onto Pendrell.

She didn't ask him in.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 28

T
he thirteenth day.

Police were everywhere. Police cars, motorbikes, uniformed men, plainclothesmen, inspectors, chief inspectors, superintendents, even the police chief himself.

At the fitness center, Lucy Lambert wore her aerobics outfit—gray tights, midriff bare, white T-shirt. The center would be closing soon. She headed for the showers. There was only one woman there, and the room was steamy, but not so steamy that Lucy couldn't see the lovebirds tattoo on the woman's left buttock.

“Is someone picking you up?” Lucy asked the woman after she emerged from the shower.

“Pick up? No.”

She was attractive and had an accent, eastern European by the sounds of it. “I was asking because of the murders,” said Lucy. “The West End isn't safe for walking after dark.”

The woman smiled. “Hotel not so far.”

“My dad picks me up,” said Lucy. “We could drop you off.”

“Thank you, but I am okay.”

Lucy tried again. “You know that today is the thirteenth day, don't you? It's dangerous out there.”

“Bayshore Hotel only short walk.”

Lucy toweled and dressed. The other woman was taking her time. Before she left, Lucy said, “Are you sure you don't want a ride? It's no trouble.”

The woman shook her head, smiling.

“I be fine.”

Lucy skipped down the stairs. She could see her dad's car through the rain-spattered glass doors.

“Hello, sweetheart!” Alan Lambert opened the car door for his daughter.

“Hi, Dad.” She leaned over and kissed his rough cheek as he started the car and moved off.

She couldn't help thinking about the woman with the lovebirds, hoping she'd make it to her hotel all right.