J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“Not surprising these days,” I say. “So you canned him for being unhappy?”

“We canned him for moonlighting on a side venture with one of ESG’s competitors. The Nigeria trip was planned months in advance, and the feeling was that it might be best to take action while he was in the field. There were security concerns-and that’s as much as I can say about the matter.”

“Security as in the threat of violence?”

“No, no,” he says. “Nothing like that. But Dave had access to a great deal of sensitive information. We needed to ensure he couldn’t destroy anything. Or share it.”

“Had there been any violence in the past?” I ask. “The man does collect weapons, you know that?”

His eyes narrow. “I wasn’t aware of that. But no, there’s never been anything like that with Dave. He’s very professional, very good at what he does. But he’s also a somewhat aggressive, somewhat unlikeable sort. His role here had evolved into too much of a front office position, whereas Dave’s more of an in-the-field type.”

If Bayard really is in Nigeria, the odds of him using his prized collectible bowie knife in an attempted double event over the weekend seem remote. But I still need to talk to the man. And I need to recollect why Nigeria is so fresh on my brain.

“Is there a number in Lagos where he can be reached?”

The lawyer reaches for the phone. Stops. “Can I be honest with you? Dave might still be in Nigeria, and he might have come home. We really have no way of knowing. For our kind of work, Lagos is pretty much the center of Africa. It’s very cosmopolitan and there are plenty of. . opportunities. All I can tell you for certain is that the return ticket has him coming back next week, and that hasn’t been changed. Now, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t left Lagos. He may have worked something out with a competitor; he may have slunk home with his tail between his legs. He could be anywhere.”

“Be that as it may, I have to speak to the man. How can I contact him?”

“Hold on.” He picks up the phone and dials an internal extension, presumably the tight-lipped secretary’s. After a little back and forth, he writes something down on a pad and slides it across the desk.

“That’s Dave’s home address and phone. You can speak to his wife, and maybe she’ll know how to contact him. Then again, maybe not. My understanding is that it’s a troubled marriage.”

“ This is his wife?” I say. “ This is his address?”

Now I remember.

“Why? Is there something strange about that?”

The name he’s written on the pad reads KIM BAYARD. The address is around the corner from Dr. Joy Hill’s house in West U. The yards of the two houses are separated only by the privacy wall. When I did the neighborhood canvass, I spoke to this woman. It was she who sent me down the street to Emmet Mainz’s house.

And now her husband, who is either in Nigeria or not, turns out to be the purchaser of the knife used to kill both Simone Walker and Agnieszka Oliszewski? Which means the killer I’ve been looking for could be the next-door neighbor.

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15 — 3:00 P.M.

Before I approach Bayard’s wife, before there’s any possibility that he’ll be tipped off to how close I am, I want to know everything about him: his background, his movements over the last two weeks, the extent and status of his knife collection.

I divide the task with Aguilar, who volunteers to camp out at Dearborn Gun and Blade until he can put together a list of local collectors and consignment sellers.

“Work your way through, and if Knife 29 changed hands, let me know.”

He heads to Dearborn’s shop, leaving me to phone ICE-Immigration amp; Customs Enforcement-with an urgent request to flag David Bayard’s passport and let me know whether he’s reentered the country. No doubt the information is available at the stroke of a key, but the helpful bureaucrat on the other end of the line insists on a proper request, after which he’ll get back to me with the information. Once I’ve jumped through that hoop, I’m left to hunt and peck my way through the online databases in search of Bayard.

Dave Bayard turned fifty-two this year. He’s lived in the West University house behind Dr. Hill’s for nineteen years, ever since his marriage to his second wife Kim. He has a son from a previous marriage, now a student at Texas A amp;M. His employment with Energy Solutions Group goes back to 2000, and before that he worked for Enron. Whatever financial stresses have assailed him recently, his credit record is superb.

In the past ten years he’s been arrested twice for assault. Police arrived at the house in early 2002 after a 9-1-1 call from the son. Bayard, intoxicated, had manhandled his wife, who chose not to press charges. A second incident fourteen months later ended the same way. In that report, Bayard apparently told the responding officers he was undergoing therapy related to anger issues. After that, he either cleaned up his act or his son grew tired of ratting him out. The criminal record goes silent.

Several media pieces online refer to Bayard, citations in Offshore and Pipeline amp; Gas , all from the late ’90s, and a column-length profile in another energy sector publication that has since folded. Clicking through the links, I discover a Chronicle piece from a decade ago in which Bayard is quoted on the subject of Donald Fauk’s murder conviction.

This is unthinkable, he says. For a generation of mavericks who looked up to Donald as an icon, his fall from grace comes as a real blow.

I stare at the words on the screen.

Simone Walker’s killer used a knife sold to Bayard. Her killer also arranged the scene to bear an uncanny resemblance to Nicole Fauk’s. And now Bayard turns out to have regarded Donald Fauk as an icon? This has to be the man I’m after.

“Detective?”

I glance over my shoulder at the beaming smile of my non-sworn researcher, who clutches a sheaf of paper in her red-nailed hand.

“Your phone records,” she says, handing them over. “The one I highlighted is the call you’re after. It’s a Dallas number.”

“Whose?”

“Jack Hill.” She smiles wider. “That’s Dr. Joy Hill’s ex-husband.”

I snatch the phone handset and start dialing the number. As it rings, I mouth the word thanks . She gazes down on me with satisfaction, then floats away.

“Angie’s dead? Are you being serious?”

“I’m sorry to break the news like this, Mr. Hill.”

“And you’re investigating. .” He sounds disoriented, baffled. “I’m gonna need a second to process this. She was so. . young.”

“When I spoke to your wife-excuse me, your ex-wife-she said Agnieszka made a phone call while she was at the site of Simone’s murder. According to the phone records, she called you. Could you tell me what that conversation was about, Mr. Hill?”

“I. . You’ll have to forgive me. I can’t, I can’t quite get my head around it. She’s gone? What happened exactly? Was it the same person who killed the new girl?”

“Sir, if you’ll please answer my question. Tell me about your phone call with Agnieszka.”

“All right,” he says. “If it was Joy that put you in the picture, then I assume you’re aware that I had a special relationship with Angie. That didn’t last long. You sound like an older fella, so maybe you can relate when I tell you. . a man can hardly say no when someone so young, so breathtaking wants to be with him. But I could tell what she was looking for was a daddy, not a boyfriend, and if I’d wanted to be a daddy, well. . you see what I mean.”